


Anathema

by GhostManatee



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Eventual Vergil/Reader, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Rating subject to change, Slow Burn, the slowest burn, totally a vergil/ofc story disguised as vergil/reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-11-26 19:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18184754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostManatee/pseuds/GhostManatee
Summary: From cursed child of Fortuna to protector of Sparda's legacy,  your life had never been an easy one. To stop the ambitions of a demonic force longing to rise again,  you lend your knowledge to the elder son of Sparda. You weren't expecting to feel what you did.Vergil/Reader story spanning from pre-DMC3 all the way to 5. Rating subject to change.





	1. The Little Girl Lost

**Author's Note:**

> A totally self-indulgent work. This will see updates when I have the free time to do so, but I have plans for it all the way up to chapter 5 and will keep outlining as I go! I'll be keeping characters as IC as possible, with some tweaks here and there. Namely, Vergil's personality will be more like V's in the beginning. That feels weird to say given that V IS Vergil. But I think you all know what I mean!  
> Later chapters won't be as exposition-y, but gotta get through the nitty-gritty first!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were sent to die for the sins of your father, only to find that fate had other plans for you in the form of a mysterious benefactor.

 

 

_‘Frowning, frowning night,_

_O’er this desert bright,_

_Let thy moon arise_

_While I close my eyes.’_  

* * *

 

It was rather unfortunate that you were so terrible at playing pretend.

If you were better at it, you could pretend that memories of your life in Fortuna were hazy, muddied water. You could pretend that you’d had a normal childhood, with loving parents and friends who’d adored you. You could pretend you were born into a typical city with a typical name, rather than a city whose strict doctrines could condemn a five year old child to a life of obscurity for the sins of her father.

But you weren’t good at pretending. No matter how tightly you shut your eyes to the truth, it remained like a stain behind your eyelids. You could lie to yourself all you wanted, but reality always found you, and even years after leaving the place, the word “Fortuna” sounded more like “Sorrow.”

To a child, his or her parents are their entire world, and for the first few years of your life, you enjoyed the love and protection that came from being someone’s daughter. Too young to comprehend things like a Savior or demons or the Order of the Sword your parents were a part of, you were content to spend your early days in one of the numerous gardens and greenhouses on the island, daydreaming the time away. You spent most of your days alone, even if there was solace to be found in returning to the warmth of your mother and father in the evenings. They were busy most days, with hardly enough time for you. You saw your mother more than your father, and between her teachings and those of a pair of tutors, you learned just the same as every other child in the city.

If only you’d been a little older, a little wiser. Maybe then you could have understood the tense smiles mother gave when father returned home late from secretive meetings with others in the Order. Maybe then you would have discovered his intent, or understood why he stole you away to Fortuna Castle in the middle of the night. Had you only been a little wiser, you’d have avoided the ritual that you unwittingly became a part of, and would have avoided the hate that came from mother after.

But you were _not_ wise, you were not strong or smart yet. But you were courageous and you trusted your father fully. Why shouldn’t you? He was kind, always smiling at you, and often snuck you treats when your pious, strict mother wasn’t looking. It was all too easy for him to steal you away. Your blind faith cost your father his life, caught in the midst of his ritual and so excommunicated and hanged for his crime. Your naivety cost yourself, as well. From that day on, your mother only looked at you with contempt and fear.

Your father’s ritual had given him exactly what he’d wanted, but every gift came with a price. The price of this one had been his soul, though you had no idea what the ‘gift’ was, not yet. The mark of the gift, however, was clear for all to see, one you would forever carry with you. Anyone who looked you in the face could see it. Your eyes, once so bright and earnest, were now forever colored deep crimson.

Your days of walking Fortuna’s gardens were over. You were not fated to become part of the Order, or to live under the protection of the Savior. In the weeks following the incident, you barely saw your mother at all. Forbidden from leaving your home, or even your room in the wake of the incident, you spent days staring out the window wondering what you’d done that was so terrible.

You watched others walking in the streets; couples hand in hand, children in small groups, friends chatting side by side. It occurred to you then, even at a mere five years of age, that you had always been utterly alone. Not a single friend to speak of, and now you wouldn’t have the chance to make any. You could hardly claim to have had a close relationship with your parents, either, especially now that your father was gone.

You heard murmurs through the door at times, clergymen who came to speak to your mother about the incident in raspy, hushed tones. Your name came up often, and while it was impossible to make out all of what was said, pressing your ear to the crack in the door yielded evidence that your mother was making plans as to what to do with you. Now that your heretic father was dead, you were a stain on the household and the island as a whole with your cursed red eyes. In many cases, even when a child had a criminal parent, they’d be sent to the orphanage to become a ward of Fortuna herself. Such was not to be the case for you, not with the gravity of the crime you could hardly understand. It was only a matter of time before your life on the island came to an end one way or another.

It was about a month after you were first locked up in your room that you finally saw your mother again. She was right outside of your room, hardly sparing you a glance, lingering only long enough to unlock your door to admit one of the Holy Knights. Your mother’s eyes were filled with such hate, so much anger as she turned her back on you for the final time. You couldn’t even recall the last time she’d spoken to you, what the last thing she’d said to you had been. Well, it seemed she finally had something to say.

“Take the devil-eyed creature away.” She nodded to the knight, and then she was gone.

For his part, the knight looked regretful as he approached you. He stooped down, as if to hoist you up, but you shook your head at him and offered your hand instead. You knew already what was happening. He could at least grant you the ability to walk out on your own two feet. Out the door of the small home, across the streets through a murmuring crowd gathered to watch your departure, and finally to the pier, you held back your tears out of pride...and perhaps shock. There, the knight loaded you up on a tiny boat before boarding himself and taking up the oars.

You felt...numb? Calm? You weren’t really sure. It all felt like a horrible nightmare  you’d hopefully soon wake up from.

 _Devil-eyed creature_. Those were the last words you’d ever hear from your mother’s lips, the words that would haunt you the most, and nullify every time she’d ever said she loved you. Though the knight was kind enough to at least tell you what was happening, you hardly heeded his words. Your mother had wanted you killed, seeing you as an abomination who’d taken her daughter’s place. But in the eyes of the law you were still an innocent, and killing you would be a sin. Thus did the Order decide upon an alternative; exile. You were to be taken across the sea, far away from Fortuna and left in a different city. If you were wise, said the knight, and very lucky, you could make it on your own. He looked sad when he said it, like he was having trouble saying the harsh words and even more trouble believing them. It just wasn’t right to send a child off to die, no matter what kind of crime she’d unwittingly been a part of.

It was a full three days before the little boat docked. In that time period, you hadn’t cried once, feeling almost incapable of it, silenced by the numb feeling of frigid grief. It was only when the knight picked you up and set you on your feet, wrapping a cloak about your shoulders and handing you a tiny dagger that the dam finally broke. Tears spilled free, hot and stinging, as reality cut through the haze of numbness. You would never go home, would never see the gardens again, and honestly you might not even live through the night. You had no idea where you were, how far from Fortuna you were, or if day would even break again. The knight wasn’t supposed to help you in any way, as he had only been tasked with dropping you off somewhere far away. But he felt damned down to his very core abandoning you. That was why he gave you the two gifts.

“Please forgive me, child,” he pleaded as he pushed the little boat off once more. “I will pray for you every night. May the Savior watch over you.”

You watched the knight until the little boat vanished over the horizon, sobs wracking your little body. You didn’t know why your mother hated you so merely for a change in your eyes. You did not know that the knight cried for hours while holding his infant son once he arrived home.

You only knew that you’d been left to die.

* * *

 

Hours passed before you moved from that spot, the cold ocean winds forcing you to seek shelter out of instinct. Your tears had subsided by then, leaving your eyes dry and aching. A hollow feeling settled into your heart, eyes unseeing as your bare feet aimlessly carried you. While you were grateful for the cloak, you were hungry and tired, unable to remember the last time you had eaten. You did not get very far before the hunger and exhaustion overtook you. It was far too late at night to try finding shelter with anyone, and you were too scared to do so anyway. What if they hated you like your mother? What if they hurt you for your sinful eyes?

You passed by a tall building overtaken by green, ivy vines creeping up to the very roof. They looked like they’d been carefully cultivated, and they reminded you of the gardens you’d so loved. The building itself was dark inside, no doubt owing to the ungodly hour, but didn’t look abandoned. At least the knight had taken you to a place with civilized life. You would have to worry about finding true shelter and food in the morning, after you’d rested and probably cried some more. For now, the alleyway next to the building would have to do.

Though there were stacked wood piles and some large empty fruit crates,  it wasn’t a particularly dirty alleyway. At least you wouldn’t have to contend with the stench of rotting garbage while you slept.  

You spent what felt like an eternity pushing some of the crates together, having to settle for clustering them rather than stacking them as you lacked the strength to do so. Hunkering down in the middle was the best bet, and you drew your cloak over yourself at long last.

Was this to be your life now? What would happen when winter arrived? It was already early autumn, the air carrying the gelid promise of the freezing season. What would you eat? What about clothes? What about school? You had just learned how to write sentences, were barely learning how to read when the tutors had stopped coming. How would you possibly take care of yourself in this strange city?

Worry became your companion in the dark, and tears started afresh until at last you cried yourself into a light and fitful slumber.

Awakening a mere three hours later, you felt a strange sense of unease unrelated to your earlier worries. It was still pitch black out, a few stars twinkling in the sky above. Something stank, like hot garbage ripening in the sun. Only, there hadn’t been any such thing in the alleyway when you fell asleep. You sat up slowly to the sound of a tapping, like a dog’s claws on concrete. Eyes adjusting to the dark, you felt that unease grow stronger, enough that panic gripped your heart. Attempts to dismiss the smell and noise as an overactive imagination were ultimately futile, even though what you saw couldn’t possibly belong to any realm but the one of nightmares. Because the waking world didn’t feature slavering creatures dribbling blood all over, or creatures who looked scaly and black with flaming eyes whose claws carved deep furrows into brick. But you felt as cold as ever, a hunger gnawed your belly, and your body ached from sleeping on the stony ground. No, the creatures climbing the walls of the alleyway were no nightmare, no matter how much you wished they were.

Nor were any of the others creeping towards you, tap-tap-tapping across the ground.

 _Run_ , your mind screamed, but even as you leaped to your feet and scrambled for the little dagger, you feared it was too late. This was why the knight had been so fearful for you. He knew what lurked in the dark. Claws raked your shoulder and you fell back with a shriek, the back of your head colliding with the brick wall. Trembling, bleeding, crying, you raised the little dagger as high as you could against the searing pain in your shoulder. It was pointless, you thought. This was the end…

But maybe, just maybe you could get one of them. If you could do that, you could give yourself an opening and try to run. Run...run where? To who?

Tears mingled with the blood from your wounds as you blindly swung the tiny point at the nearest creature. To your shock, it connected, going right through the side of the creature’s head. You let go of the dagger in surprise as it began to disintegrate into ash before you. The others of its like raised a cacophony of guttural snarling, charging at you. You saw your chance, snatched up the little knife, and you ran.

Well, you would have, had you not still been within the circle of fruit crates. As it was, your toes caught the edge of the nearest one, sending you toppling to the pavement to bloody your face when you tripped. This was it for you, then. You scrabbled to sit up on your hands and knees, desperate to get away, to save yourself from being torn apart. Two of the creatures dove for you, before a dark shadowy shape seemed to sweep them away.

“Filthy rats! I should have known you were the only vermin fool enough to hunt in my territory!”

Shocked, you shuffled back as a man appeared before you at the mouth of the alleyway. It was too dark to make out any features, but whoever it was appeared tall, with a calmly condescending voice. Overwhelmed, you could only watch as the creatures descended upon the man only to be eliminated. One by one, they fell to the ground in pieces and the man looked totally unharmed. How?

It was over within a matter of seconds, though to your young eyes it seemed much longer.

The interloper seemed to finally take notice of you, turning towards your spot with a silvery blade in his hands. Instinct forced you back, had you shrinking against the wall and hunching down to look as small as possible. Your knife, still held tightly in your grasp, seemed to raise up on its own accord and you made ready to defend yourself. You were shaking so hard, you could barely hold onto it. This drew a laugh out of the man, who stashed his own blade within his coat.

“My, aren’t you a little spitfire? Quite the show of bravado after such an ordeal. What are you doing out here by yourself, little one?”

You didn’t answer. Not at first. You didn’t want to, because that same unease about the creatures persisted with the man. You remembered an incident last year, where you’d nearly fallen down a steep slope overlooking the seas of Fortuna.

The way your stomach had plummeted to your knees was the same now as it had been then.

Most people would simply write it off as adrenaline, but later after you were calm, that same dread would persist. Whatever it was, it had you glaring at the man rather than speaking. This, however, only seemed to amuse the stranger more. He shook his head, stalked around to the front of the building, and temporarily vanished from your sight. It was a mere few seconds before he returned, but when he did so, a light had been switched on. Now, you could see his face in the light. Blue eyes. He had blue eyes. A hooked nose, a kind face. And he could see you more clearly, too. He saw your scraped bare feet and the dirty cloak, your tangled hair and shivering body, and the blood seeping into your clothes.

Most important of all, he could see your red, tearful eyes. He saw it all, and he adopted a gentle, sympathetic smile.

“I see. In that case, why don’t you come with me, child?”

Again, you tensed. You’d always been warned about strangers and their nefarious intentions. A kind voice could be disguising a wicked heart. You had learned that one first hand, thanks to your own father. Wary, you spoke.

“Who...who are you?”

The man gave a great, sweeping bow, as if in an attempt to coax a smile from  you.

“I am called Alarin. May I have your name then, little one?”

It had been so long since anyone had actually said your name. The last time had been before you were taken to the ritual. Did you even have one anymore? Thinking about it hurt, the same way thinking about Fortuna’s gardens hurt. Your name felt like something you should leave behind for your own safety and sanity.

“I...I don’t have a name now.”

“No name? Well, what am I to call you then?”

Despite the fear and uncertainty, the man seemed sincere in wanting to help you. You would die if left alone, anyway. To die by yourself in a cold alleyway, or to die at the hand of a “kind” stranger? The choice seemed obvious, and  you finally lowered the knife. Still, you had no answer for the stranger. This did not seem to bother the man, who continued to speak.

“Our names give us power, little one. Without a name, we have none at all, and those who give them can take our names away. You have no name, yet you have the power to choose one. Doing that, there is none in the world who can take your power from you.”

What was he on about? At least you were starting to relax a little…

“Ah, but that can come in time. I suppose for now we should get out of this cold and see about that wound of yours.”

Because you were cold, because you were hungry, and because the wound ached and you were alone… Because you had no other options, you took the hand Alarin stretched down towards you, completely unaware of how the simple act would change your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus does our dear Reader begin their new life. It will be a bit before Reader meets Vergil, but not too terribly long!


	2. The Lamb and The Tyger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some secrets are exchanged between yourself and your savior, and names are given to many things.

 

 

_Little Lamb, who made thee?_

_Dost thou know who made thee?_

_Gave thee life & bid thee feed,_

_By the stream & o'er the mead_

_Tyger Tyger burning bright,_

_In the forests of the night:_

_What immortal hand or eye,_

_Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?_

_When the stars threw down their spears_

_And water'd heaven with their tears:_

_Did he smile his work to see?_

_Did he who made the Lamb make thee?_

* * *

 

Your benefactor, as you were soon to discover, was the owner and proprietor of the ivy-covered building you thought to be so pretty. It was no wonder, then, that he’d found you, for it was next to his home that you’d sought shelter. This meant, luckily, that you had minimal walking to do before you could finally rest. The interior was already illuminated, showing rows upon rows of bookshelves within the space. Your eyes widened. A library?

“Now then,” Alarin spoke. “Let us see to that wound.”

His words didn’t really sink in yet. The pain you felt seemed to vanish for a little while as you glanced about in wonder at the array of books before you. Never in your short life had you seen so many in one place, not even in Fortuna. The building was far larger than it appeared on the outside, housing three stories' worth of materials. Somewhere within this space were the rooms where Alarin actually lived, though it would only be later that you discovered that. Your eyes were drawn to the large ornate windows lining the building’s front when a twinge of pain in your shoulder finally drew you from your reverie. Alarin was looking down at you, chuckling softly.

“Um...I’m sorry...What did you say?”

He merely laughed in response, a hand coming to rest atop your head to ruffle your hair.

“No worries, little one. You must be starving by now, hm? Why don’t we look at that shoulder and find something to eat?”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the night was quite honestly a blur. You could recall a bath, food, bandaging, and some oversized clothing being given to you with a promise to find better-fitting garments in the morning. But after that, there was only the sleep of the dead, hours ticking by in rest that was mercifully free of nightmares.

That was certainly not to say your dreams weren’t at least strange. As you lie there in a small room on a comfortable guest bed soon to become your own, strange imagery greeted your sleeping mind. You woke from visions of a sword, an owl, and a great tower stretching into the sky. But you felt stronger upon waking, most of your terror was gone, and the stiff bandages around your shoulder reminded you that you hadn’t died or dreamed the previous night’s events.

There _was_ still a great fear, however, one which followed you as days at the archive turned to weeks. It was the fear that your benevolent benefactor would turn out to be cruel and hateful or turn you out onto the streets. That fear seemed to trump any other.

You could stand cruelty, if only he would let you stay.

But Alarin was anything but cruel. Certainly, he could be strict with the rules he set up for his home and business (which, as you would learn in time, was literally called The Archive, which made you laugh), but he wasn’t needlessly vicious to you at any point at all. As the weeks crept by, trust slowly took root as you settled quite happily within the place. You didn’t ask many questions about Alarin’s work. Instead you observed his careful steps between the shelves and his interactions with customers (there were others in this city!). You learned by watching rather than bombarding your savior with unnecessary questions. The Archive functioned exactly as you expected, as both a library and store. The hours of operation were between eight in the morning and eight at night. Food was not allowed anywhere near the books, not even a crumb, and if anyone got caught doing harm to a book, may the gods have mercy upon them. It was a life that suited you well, honestly.  You had the freedom to do as you pleased,  so long as it didn't infringe upon Alarin and his doings. 

But you did not bring up the topic of the creatures from the first night, at least not at first.

Alarin never pressed you for information, either, seeming content to allow you to recover from your ordeal while keeping a watchful eye on you. He didn't offer any specific form of comfort when the nightmares would wake you in the night, but his presence alone was its own form of reassurance.

But for all the appreciation you had, as grateful as you felt, there was still something odd about him, a feeling you couldn’t place. Finally, after nearly two months, you dared to approach your strange savior with a collection of questions burning in your mind. Your little hand tugged at the hem of his coat as he was closing up the archive for the night, and he looked down at you with surprise.

“Yes, little one? What is it?”

You fidgeted in place, rubbing absently at your shoulder with your free hand. There a trio of scars sat, spanning from the end of your shoulder and stretching diagonally inward. They were marks you had come to regard as proof that you were a survivor. They still ached from time to time, though the wounds had long healed over. You wanted to ask him why...why had he saved you? But you felt stuck, unable to think of the right way to start speaking.

“I...um...I have a lot of things I want to ask…”

Your earnest confession earned a grin from the strange man. Truth be told, he had a lot of questions about you too. But humans were strangely delicate in the wake of trauma, and that was doubly true for a child. Alarin had spent the time of your recovery in discrete observation of you, trying to glean any sort of clue as to why you’d been singled out by the demons in a city teeming with other easy targets. But in the days and weeks that had come to pass, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. You were, for all intents and purposes, just a sad and lonely human child.

That only made it all the more frustrating. You probably didn’t understand anything about your situation either, so it was not as though you could tell him. So he wondered just what you wanted to ask him, in turn wishing to ask you a few things.

“Of course, child. You may ask whatever you wish. If I can ask you a few questions in return, that is.”

“...okay,” you answered, apprehension creeping in. You waited, deciding to let him go first.

“Something I’ve been wondering about is where you came from. Where was your home?”

“I…” The inquiry summoned a look of pain to your face, and for a long moment you did not speak. Given how such a simple question had made you react, he knew he had chosen the right one for the information he wanted.

“I was born on Fortuna,” you said at last. “It’s this big, big city across the sea with a big castle. A knight brought me here on a boat after I..."

Alarin shut his eyes tightly, agitation rising in his chest. He knew well of the island, and its population of those who were completely incapable of keeping themselves from repeating their own history. The evidence of your Fortuna heritage was there in the way you carried yourself, fearful and obedient. Hearing the island’s cursed name just hammered it home. He had another suspicion about you, but it would take one more uncomfortable question to get the answer.

“What happened to your eyes, child?”

Immediately, you covered them, shame and fear and sadness making you wish to hide. However, Alarin’s hands gripped yours, gently prying them away from your face. The strange man looked almost owl-like, eyes unblinking at you. And again, you felt that unease from the first night.

“You don’t need to be afraid, little one. There’s nothing wrong with them at all. They’re merely part of you. I’m simply curious how you got them.”

“I...my dad...did something. I don’t remember well… he took me somewhere and...and I…”

“Shh. It’s alright, child. You need not say any more. Besides, you had questions for me, did you not?”

That was all he needed to know. Details weren’t necessary to piece together your plight. Just by hearing your broken words, he understood why you’d been sought out by the demons now. Your eyes were the mark of a demonic power, some latent gift your father had sought to gain for himself. The demons had been able to sense that. After all, if he could sense it, even the lowliest of demons could. Alarin’s lip curled in disgust. Humans so often liked to pretend they were better than demons, yet were willing to sacrifice children like animals would.

“Are you okay?” Your shaky voice brought him back from his musings.

“Yes, I’m quite fine. But tell me, what is it you wish to know from me?”

He saw you hesitate, puffing out your cheeks before speaking with the honest curiosity that only a child could muster.

“Those things that hurt me...were those… A-are monsters real?”

You felt stupid for asking it, but Alarin regarded you with utmost seriousness. He looked at your blood-red eyes and your scrawny frame, remembering your fear and confusion from that night. The victim of human lies and manipulation, and yet you’d fought for your life. With a sigh, Alarin crouched to your level, deciding then and there to tell you the whole truth.

“Yes, child. Monsters are quite real indeed. The creatures that attacked you are called demons, and there are countless other sorts in this world. But...you already knew that, didn’t you little one?”

There was a wisdom in your eyes, or perhaps just a keen sense of perception. Even though you may not have the words or context for things, you still had an innate feel for the mood of a situation.

Slowly, you nodded. You knew they hadn’t been a nightmare, but neither were they any sort of animal that existed. Your affirmation was all that Alarin needed to entrust you with another bit of information.

“Then you should know that I am also not human.”

His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke to you, and you listened sincerely, understanding the gravity of his words. For Alarin only ever spoke when it was really necessary, or he had something he felt was important to say. He had never been a chatterer. And he was giving away his greatest of secrets to you, a mere child. You were confused, but that was alright. It wouldn’t take but a handful of years to understand.

“I am a demon as well, child. A devil, I am, and my true name is Stolas.”

 

* * *

 

Stolas. Giver of wisdom and keeper of knowledge. A prince of Hell and commander of twenty-six legions of demons, he turned his back on his more violent kin two thousand years ago alongside Sparda, the very savior spoken of in Fortuna’s legends.

You were never to speak his name aloud to another. For as he told you, to a devil, names held immense power. As an ally of the now-deceased Sparda, Stolas had many enemies. If any of them heard the name spoken, they could find him and kill him. It would mean the destruction of everything within the archive, every page of history and knowledge he so carefully kept. And, you realized, it could mean a fate worse than death for you as well. In choosing to feel sympathy and take you in, he had chosen to bring you fully into his world.

As such, your new surrogate father guided you in the learning of many aspects of both the demon world and the human one. You learned the history of Sparda’s uprising against the the demon king Mundus, his life within the human world, and his ultimate demise. You learned of Devil Arms and the rifts between worlds used by demons to manifest upon the mortal plane. And, eventually, the pair of you learned the extent of the “gift” given by the ritual so long ago. You could sense demons even if they were disguised, and you could sense when a rift was going to open, a sort of supernatural demonic forecast. In exchange, it didn't matter how far you ran, or how well you hid.  Demons would always, always find you.   _That_ was the price of such a gift. 

 _‘For when you gaze into the abyss,’_ Stolas had said, _‘it gazes back into you.’_

For the first couple of years, Stolas did well in protecting you from attacks when they occurred. But it wouldn’t do forever, he told you, not for his intended successor. You would learn how to defend yourself, for the moments when he was unable, and for after he was gone. 

You often wondered at the fact that a demon, a powerful and wise devil, had been kinder to you than any human ever had, and why he’d chosen you of all people to teach and protect.

You asked him about it once, when you were about thirteen, and he’d merely told you that having you around was a good opportunity to learn about humans. After all, the chance to learn about the human realm was what had ultimately enticed him to join Sparda’s rebellion in the first place. But being chosen didn’t give you an excuse to slack off, so you’d better focus on  your sword lessons as well as your paper ones, dammit. And wasn’t it about time you picked a name? The man couldn’t very well call you “child” or “little one” forever. You just laughed then, calling him a “ruffled old owl,” and continued with your training.

However, you did ultimately take him seriously. In time, you chose a new name for yourself; Alraune.

“The fabled plant which grows in the gallows dirt beneath where a man is executed,” Stolas mused. “Yes, a fitting name indeed. Well chosen, Raune.”

You wore your name as proudly as the scars of your survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, since his real name is known, Alarin will be referred to as Stolas unless Reader is speaking to another person about him. Stolas is the name of a demon in the Ars Goetia, a prince of Hell said to grant wisdom, knowledge, and future sight to some. Illustrations of the demon often depict him as a dapper little owl with long legs and a crown. I chose Stolas as Reader’s guardian because I knew a large library/archive would be central to the story in some ways, especially when it comes to meeting Vergil later on. 
> 
> On Reader’s chosen name: An Alraune is another name for a Mandrake or Mandragora, a fabled plant said to grow from the blood of a beheaded criminal or the emissions of one who’d been hanged. Since Reader’s the daughter of a man who was executed, I thought it was fitting. 
> 
> As for the city where the beginning of the story takes place, I thought about making it Red Grave, but I don’t think the city is that close to Fortuna in the game’s universe? If it was that close, Reader would probably have met Vergil as a child and I didn’t want that to happen too soon. Speaking of Vergil, however, Reader will finally meet him next chapter! Thanks for reading!


	3. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking back on it, the fateful meeting was...quieter than you expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really working on any particular length for chapters here, just ending them where it feels natural to do so. I hope that's not too distracting, having varied lengths for chapters! This one's a little shorter than the first two, but the next one is going to more than make up for that.

 

_It's the rain that I hear coming_

_Not a stranger or a ghost_

_It's the quiet of a storm approaching_

_That I fear the most_

_\-------------------------------_

 

Around the time of your sixteenth birthday, it became quite common for Stolas to leave the shop to you during the daytime. Not only was it part of your education and responsibility, but Stolas seemed to be venturing to some unknown locale more often, vanishing for days at a time. He didn’t mention where he was going, only that he’d “return soon.”

You weren’t worried for your safety so much; Stolas had placed wards on the archive years ago when you were still small. No, your only complaint came in the form of the groups of students who would come to use the archives for school research projects.

Not to say that you hated people. You were fairly amicable to others, and while you could have a temper on your bad days, you weren’t considered a complete social outcast. Hell, you’d even had your fair share of boyfriends over the last year since you first started noticing such things. But such encounters were brief, fleeting.

Maybe it was just due to your unique upbringing, but you never really felt much of an actual connection to others. You didn’t have a ton of patience for their inane problems or the gossip you’d overhear from female students. It all just seemed so small in comparison to the knowledge you’d gained over the years and the work that you did. Knowing that a whole other world existed barely-hidden beside yours was a bit humbling.

You were well aware of how lucky you really were. Taught privately, given everything you’d needed, and allowed a startlingly human upbringing, you wanted for nothing and had your future already lined up as Stolas’ successor. As such, maybe it was fair to say you’d developed a bit of an ego, or at least a strong dislike of other people. If they only knew what really lurked in the shadows, it wouldn’t matter so much who “Billy” had kissed last week or what “Minnie” had worn yesterday. Still, you did your best to be polite and helpful when they came in.

A lot of them were loud and fairly disrespectful to the archives, though. When Stolas was around, they mostly behaved. But when it was just you there, they only saw a young woman who had been “put in charge” of supervising them, and they resented it. It didn’t matter how mature you were. Worse still, some of them were especially tenacious in their quest to annoy you. You couldn’t even count the number of times someone had commented on your eyes, asking if you’d “gotten your contacts at Hot Topic.” You didn’t really mind insults directed at yourself, but when they got extra cheeky and commented on the archive itself, you felt yourself bristle. Whether it was tossing books around or putting their feet on tables, the tiniest acts of disrespect boiled your blood. Complaints about how “boring” the books were, how “hard” it was to find things, and how the place looked like it hadn’t been dusted in a hundred years had you adopting a sickly sweet tone.

“The Archive is home to hundreds of texts relevant to subjects today. If you find it not to your liking, perhaps you should go elsewhere. Though maybe if you opened your eyes instead of your mouth, you might have a better time finding what you need.”

That usually got the offenders to leave in a huff, and though you knew Stolas would be disappointed with you chasing off customers, you always felt better after the messes they left behind were taken care of.

\---------

Rainy days were always your favorites. Something about the gloom chased off all but the most stubborn or devoted customers, and the fresh scent of rain always enticed you to prop open the front door while you busied yourself. You weren’t worried about demons slipping in. The wards and your own keen senses would warn you of anything amiss. So you took advantage of the lack of customers to ascend to the third floor, the sections off-limits to visitors.

Here, Stolas kept the oldest texts of his collection; tomes of ancient lore and damaged scrolls, records of demon family trees and dozens of uncatalogued loose pages. The materials here were incredibly fragile and important, and even you hadn’t been allowed near them until you were old enough to know how to properly handle them. Now though, you were the only person he trusted near such precious items. It was on slower days such as this one (and in any spare moment, honestly) that you liked to retreat to these upper levels to copy the contents of the loose pages into blank volumes. You were learning book restoration for the more damaged items, but putting other things into one usable source was important too. The process was a slow one, complicated by how difficult some of the demonic texts could be to read and copy, but you didn’t mind. With nowhere to go, no one you were beholden to, you could sit for hours in peaceful silence serenaded by the storm.

Such was not to be the case today, however.

You had only just begun to settle in when your instincts felt a pull, senses going haywire as something tripped your own natural alarm. The hand gripping your pen clutched at the hem of your skirt as you swiftly descended the steps. Had the wards failed? You grabbed for your jacket, rushing towards the door to find the source of the demonic pull. Fight or flight barely kept at bay, you felt an overwhelming confusion when your gift brought you to a stop in front of a young man standing in the entryway.

His hair was a silvery hue, standing out against his dark colored clothing. That was a surprise, given that he didn’t look that much older than you. In his hands was a well-worn hardcover, but that hardly concerned you. No, what stood out the most were his eyes, so cold and so blue, looking right at you with undertones of...was that amusement? Maybe. It was honestly hard to tell, with his face so impassive otherwise.

There was no one else there, nothing lurking beyond the building’s wards. That threw you off. Surely you hadn’t been sensing _him_?

Awkward silence stretched out as you and the boy had a stare-down. For he was indeed merely a boy, a teen who couldn’t possibly be any older than yourself. Yet he held an unearthly quality as well. Were it not for the softness that remained in some of his features, you would have taken him for much older.

Something else bothered you. Your senses had never failed you before. There was certainly something off about him, or else your long hours of isolation were finally getting to you. You tried to brush the feeling off, putting on a friendly smile.

“Ahah...sorry about that. I thought I heard something outside.” You didn’t bother trying to give an excuse. “Um, is there something I can help you with?”

The youth smirked the tiniest bit, and you felt your heart leap. That smirk did something to his face, made him look more human and less like the impression of a carved marble sculpture that you initially got. You could have kicked yourself for your reaction. It wasn’t like you to obsess over boys, even if you had had boyfriends. To be fair, this one was in a league all his own, jaw cut and strong and shoulders broadening into those of a man.

You gave yourself a mental shake. Focus! You were a professional-in-training, damnit! Your senses never lied to you, _never_. Someone’s good looks weren’t enough to dull them.

“I had heard that this shop caters to special interests,” he spoke. “Namely book restoration. I thought I might utilize that service if available.”

You tamped down the impulse to gape like a fish. How, how was it that he already had such a rich voice? There was a slightly nasal tone to his voice, a quality that only enhanced the words he spoke. You decided that puberty was being very kind indeed to this guest.

“Well, I do know some things about the restoration process, but that’s more Alarin’s specialty to be honest. I help where I can in his absence, however. I presume this is the book in question?” You gestured to the tome in his hands, priding yourself for not acting embarrassing. “May I?”

He hesitated before handing the book over, and you took it with utmost care, happy for the distraction from his handsome looks.

The book was at least a few decades old, yellowed pages showing its age. The binding was fragile, threadbare, as though someone had yanked the cover in two different directions. A gentle finger ran along the edge of the pages revealed that several of them were loose, only kept from flopping to the floor by the fact that the book was closed. And a very careful opening of the cover revealed a deep gash that tore through a good ten pages of the book. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it had been purposely vandalized. But the care the young man had shown in handing it over told you it wasn’t him, and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion.

Just what had happened to put this book into such a state? You cleared your throat, closing the book once more.

“William Blake, huh? I fear that this damage is extensive, better suited for a more adept hand like Alarin’s, but we may have another copy of this if you’re interested.”

“I’m afraid this particular copy has...personal value to me.”

“Replacement isn’t really an option then, I understand.” You gave a nod.

“Mn. That said, I don’t mind having a look if you’ve other volumes.”

“Sure, of course. Um, why don’t we leave this at the desk? Wouldn't want to leave it behind on a shelf by mistake.”

You handed the book back, leaving the decision to the book’s owner. He seemed to take your advice, setting the book down on the desk before following you up to the second floor. You didn’t need to look to know precisely where to find the poetry books. It only took a moment to get to that section of the archive. But as you walked, the stranger seemed impressed by the building.

“Quite the collection,” he remarked.

“Yeah, Alarin takes a lot of pride in his life’s work. Most of these are originals, impossible to replace if something were to happen. Not unlike your own, hm?”

He didn’t answer, not that you were expecting him to. You gestured at the shelves before stepping to the side.

“Here we are. I’ll leave you to it. If you need me for anything, I’ll be up on the third floor.”

You tried not to be offended with his lack of answer, instead returning to your previous work. Still bothered a bit by the inhuman feeling he gave off, you moved your books and writing tools to a spot where you could peer down the stairs and watch him. He took his time to pick out a volume, slowly flip through it, and ultimately either put it back or set it to the side. There was a meticulousness to his movements, a complete lack of hurry. He was someone who truly appreciated books, a rare thing that made you smile. But he’d seemed so...detached, lacking any real emotion in any of the things he’d said. While you watched, he heaved a sigh, raking a hand through his hair.

You honestly felt at a loss. Even if you had difficulty connecting to others, you had a good deal of empathy for them, a good sense for those who were struggling. You often wondered if that was a side effect of your demon-senses, but it certainly came in handy. With this person, it was subtle, but your keen eye could tell something was just...off. You weren’t sure if it was a weight he carried with him, or if he was simply antisocial, or if it was something else. Either way, you were a meddlesome sort, unable to leave well enough alone.

With a sigh at yourself, you gathered up your work and made your way back down a floor.

_‘You’re just a sucker for a pretty face,_ ’ you snarled at yourself. _‘You’re just making excuses to stare at him.’_

Regardless, your steps carried you to a small table near your guest. You laid out your materials and returned to work. Every now and then, you snuck glances at him, telling yourself that it was simple curiosity, or to keep an eye on anything suspicious, and not because of how handsome he was.

Eventually though, you really did focus on the task, copying the pages slowly and carefully. For a while, the only sounds were those of the stranger’s page-turning and the light scratch of ink on paper. So focused were you that you failed to notice that he was watching you too, taking notice of the pages you were copying and the careful hand you worked with.

You also failed to realize how much time had passed. It was not until you sat up for a stretch that you saw how dark it had become. A look at the nearest wall clock showed it to be only a quarter hour until eight.

“Oh, geez… Time flies, I guess,” you muttered. “I apologize for rushing you at all, but I’ll be closing up here shortly. Did you find anything worthwhile?”

He held up a trio of books without a word. Smiling lightly, you beckoned for him to follow you back down to the first floor. While you went through the motions of filling out the checkout forms, your eyes strayed to the tattered book he’d brought in. It didn’t escape his notice, as his gaze settled on it as well. His jaw was set ever so slightly, tense. At once, you felt a pinch of sadness for him. You didn’t have any personal keepsakes of your own, aside from the dagger that you’d been given by the knight as a child. Even so, you couldn’t imagine how you’d feel if something happened to it. It was the only thing you had left of Fortuna, the one thing that sparked your memory of the gardens you’d loved, other memories aside.

Not to mention, it was part of the reason you were still alive.

You couldn’t say that you had any idea what kind of story there was behind the book, but you still felt bad.

“It’s an anthology, right?” You spoke. “All of _these_ books in one, isn’t it?”

You gestured down at the three books he’d checked out, all three of them collections of poetry (though not all of the poems within were by Blake).

“It is,” he answered. “It was given to me some years ago as a gift. I regret not taking better care of it. It was a...grave misjudgment on my part that led to it being in this condition.”

“Sometimes these things happen,” you said. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to Alarin about this, see if he can restore it. He’s out of town for a few more days, but if you’re interested I can keep the book in a lock box until he can get to it.”

You tried not to sound overly eager, not too enthusiastic about the work or the idea. He didn’t really strike you as a person who appreciated fake cheer, and you’d rather not annoy a customer. Honestly, there wasn’t any expectation that he’d bite at your offer, so you added;

“Alarin is the best of the best. I promise. He’s been working with restoration for longer than I’ve been alive.”

It certainly wasn’t an exaggeration. Stolas’ expertise dated back for centuries. If anyone could fix this, it was him. To his credit, your guest didn’t seem too skeptical of your claims.

“I’ve seen the condition of some of the older books here. I won’t deny that the level of care is clear.”

You couldn't stop yourself from grinning. Was he going to go for it?

“Very well. I entrust it to your care. When can I expect the return of this Alarin?”

“Within the week,” you said. “Likely sooner. There is just one thing we’ll need from you though.”  
“Such as?”

“How to contact you,” you said. “And your name.”

You got a feeling he wasn’t your run of the mill Ryan or Steve. It just wouldn’t suit him at all. The need to know his name was strong (and you blamed it easily on what Stolas had hammered into your brain all those years ago).

He scoffed in amusement, looking down to where your hand sat poised over the sheet of paper.

“You can call me V,” he said at length.

Although you were a hundred and ten percent certain that it wasn’t his name at all, you couldn’t help but chuckle, handing the paper over for him to write down his contact information. You really were a sucker for a pretty face.

“Alright then, V. One of us will contact you soon about the restoration. I promise your treasure is in good hands until then.”

He regarded you for a long moment, eyes scanning over your frame critically before looking at your work piled nearby. Those eyes didn’t linger, but you felt naked to the world. And you knew for a fact you were blushing when he answered you.

“So it would seem.”

With that, he was on his way, borrowed books in hand, carefully shutting the door behind him.

You were almost too distracted to notice at first, that the demonic presence left with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vergil actually using the "You can call me V" line will be relevant much later in the story, I promise!  
> Next chapter will be out soon, and I'm working on another little something in the meantime. Thanks for reading!


	4. Nobody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader accepts something important regarding their position as a human in a world full of demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be the last of the big expositional chapters before actual interaction between Reader and Vergil starts happening. Sorry, guys. Gotta get through the background if you want an actual story with plot and junk ;p. Slight mention of a locale that appears in dmc2, but that's as much dmc2 as will be entering this story.

_I’m Nobody! Who are you?_

_Are you -Nobody- too?_

_Then there’s a pair of us!_

_Don’t tell! They’d advertise, you know?_

_\----------------------------------------_

 

It was a full three days before Stolas made his return. In that time, you’d actually taken to looking at the severely damaged anthology left in your care. At once, a few things stood out aside from the initial damage you’d noticed. The first was that inside the back cover was a single word, a name scrawled in fading ink.

Vergil.

V is for Vergil, you thought, tracing the letters with gloved fingers. The name was written neatly, but with the look of a slightly unpracticed hand. It really was an ancient book, likely something he’d gotten as a child. Secondly, the book had had restoration work done before. An untrained eye would merely think it was extra damage. Not to you. The traces were there in the unmatched color of pages and the paper that had once served as a replacement blank. No artisan’s mark, though. The person who’d done the repair work wished to remain unknown? Or perhaps they had done it as a passion project.

The third detail was the strangest, and the most alarming.

Each page was lavishly decorated with a copy of the original illustrations containing William Blake’s poems. But in the background of each page were strange little markings, faint traces of runes of some kind. The more you looked at them, the more similar they looked to demonic writings. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end. Thinking of Vergil, and the cold look in his eyes, and the way your senses had gone on full alert around him made you uneasy. It was while you were tracing these letters onto transfer paper that Stolas made his grand return, carrying in a wrapped bundle and walking with a severe limp. Alarmed, you sprang up to aid him with his burden and offer a shoulder to lean on.

“Where in the world have you been? What happened to you?!”

Stolas, for his part, didn’t seem half as alarmed. Here merely grinned, teeth gleaming beneath his hooked nose before handing you the wrapped bundle. He turned towards the desk to examine your work with the poetry book.

“Hello to you too. What’s this you’re working on?”

You propped up the long, awkward bundle against the desk and noticed then why he was limping. His right leg was missing entirely, replaced by a thin metal prosthetic shaped like a bird’s leg. The claws of it scraped the floor as he leaned over the desk. Well, now you were really freaked out.

“Stolas! What the hell happened to you?!”

The man turned his great, owl-like gaze upon  you and rounded the desk to carefully seat himself. In that moment, it looked like the weight of a hundred lifetimes had settled over his head, but he still evaded the question.

“I see. You’re working on translating the demonic text here. This is quite the undertaking, given the condition of the book. This isn’t one of mine, is it?”

You shook your head, unable to fathom why he was being avoidant. Thinking that he’d respond or at least have a reaction to your use of his true name if you tried a second time, you slapped your hands down atop the desk.

“Stolas, please. You’ve always been honest with me. What happened to you?”

The demon sighed, placing his hands atop yours and giving them a pat.

“I will tell you in good time, Alraune. Tonight, even. But please indulge me in this. I simply want to know what has happened here in my absence, to know that everything was well.”

The wisdom of eons was in those eyes, entreating you to trust in him. While it was difficult to control yourself from just giving the most basic rundown in order for him to tell you his story, you took a deep breath. Focus. This was your duty, hammered into your very being again and again.

“Business in the archive has been normal,” you forced yourself to say calmly. “Mostly checkouts instead of purchases, but such purchases have been noted in the ledgers. As for the work you see here, the book on the left is the completed compilation of the loose pages found in the upper archive. One thousand, three-hundred, and twenty-six pages, transferred into one source book. The book on the right is a poetry anthology a visitor was interested in having restored.”

You paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. It was true enough that you felt a bit calmer, but you resented that he was correct in his methods. Making sense of things started by grounding yourself, reciting what you already knew. He had taught you that years ago when  you were first figuring out your gift. Keeping cool, staying poised in the face of confusion was vital to a Keeper of Knowledge.

“The owner of the book was...strange. He was the only customer at the time, and I felt my senses go on alert when he arrived. They didn’t go calm until after he left but.. Well, he didn’t do anything suspicious at all. However, looking over the book he left, as you said, there is demonic text in plain sight. What ordinary man would have demonic texts?”

Aching for answers, you fidgeted in place. Stolas would certainly tell you what you needed to know. But the man was slow about it, always talking in circles around the actual answer. He liked to make you read into his speech, find the answer indirectly.

You hated that.

“I see then. Do you believe you may have encountered another like yourself?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what I encountered,” you aid. “And that scares me. Vergil didn’t seem entirely like a demon, but I’m almost certain he wasn’t a human, either.”

The name...you knew you were being clumsy with names today, but hearing “Vergil” had Stolas sitting upright. He still didn’t say anything, not yet, nothing that comforted your restless thoughts.

“Hm. A customer wanting a book restored that contains demonic text, and who goes by the name of Vergil. I have an inkling, but cannot say for sure yet… Have you his contact information?”

“He only left a moniker, V. i figured out his name only because it was written within the back cover. At least, I assume it’s his name. He left no address or contact methods.”

“Then that means he will contact us as he sees fit,” Stolas said. “Have you begun restoration?”

“No. given the condition of the book, I thought it would be more prudent to have you do it.” You moved your hands off of the desk, calmer now, and gestured to the book in question. “Have a look.”

He did, taking great care in turning each page to examine it. After some time, he carefully closed the cover and held it up for you to take.

“It’s certainly within my ability to fix. However, I’d like you to take on such a project yourself.”

Alarmed, you accepted the tome but held it away from yourself, as if it was on fire.

“Why?” You asked slowly.

“I believe that doing so will be more beneficial to you in the long run. Besides, you’re to inherit all of this once I’m gone. It’s time you were trusted with more important tasks.”

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Your eyes narrowed. “There’s something in here you won’t just explain to me.”

Stolas actually laughed, a rare sound from the demon that had your eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“What would be the point of giving you all of life’s answers? Wisdom is gained through experience, not from being given things. Even if I did tell you, you’d gain nothing from it that way.”

Gritting your teeth, you carefully put the book down to avoid slamming it in a fit of anger. Stolas knew, of course. He knew how aggravating his answers were. Often, you suspected that he thought it was funny to watch his teaching methods in action. Human perseverance in the face of absolute frustration and adversity was always something he found fascinating. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of witnessing your childish anger, so you took another deep breath.

“Very well. I’ll see to it that it returns in perfect condition. Now, will you at least tell me why you’re missing a leg?”

He looked down, tapping the metal replacement with his walking stick.

“Ah, this. Yes, it does rather stand out, does it not? I assure you there is no cause for alarm, however. I return from the Vie de Marli...and island known for existing close to a site where holes to the Underworld are often appearing. What you see here is.. Merely the result of an exchange that had to be made.”

Trying to keep the alarm and anger out of your tone was difficult, but you managed it.

“An exchange for...what, exactly?”

Wordless, Stolas gestured towards the bundle, and for the first time you noticed that it was actually two items, one wrapped in black cloth and one wrapped in blue. He indicated the one wrapped in black.

“Bring that here.”

Obedient, you fetched the object and laid it out on the desk, delicately uncovering one end. It was the tip of a sword, metal a dull matte grey. The edge was as sharp as a razor though, and  you could make out carvings on the flat of the blade, tiny marks similar to the individual filaments of a bird’s feather. Unwrapping it further revealed it to be designed after a shortsword, easily drawn from the hip and versatile. You were right in your observation. On the whole, it reminded you of a bird’s feather in design, though not shaped like one. Confusion settled on your features. Why would he give an entire leg to the abyss for a sword?

“I intended to wait a bit longer to secure this, but a vision came to me, and I knew it would be wiser to get it as soon as I could. The keepers of the rifts, beings who dwell in the realms between, demanded two things of me on the Vie de Marli. Blood, for retrieving a treasured heirloom,” He pointed at the other wrapped object. “And bone, material for forging another. It was to be your coming of age gift, but I give it to you now. Forged of my bones and containing some of my power, as such, this blade shares my name.”

Shock had you wrapping it back up immediately.

“What for? I...why would you give up a part of your body for a measly human?”

He fixed you with a stern glare, silencing your protests. You’d hardly ever seen him with that expression, and it was sobering.

“Because I’ve no blood heirs. But i chose you, a ‘measly’ human to succeed me. Power can be passed in the bloodline, or through a Devil Arm, such as the one this will become upon my death. When I am gone, it will awaken fully, housing my very soul. You will take this, and you will use it, because in a few short years the demon king Mundus will find a way to return to the human world.”

Stolas’ word was final and absolute. He’d had visions before--it was one of the gifts humans had often entreated him for in the past. Using rituals not unlike the one you’d been part of as a child, people had pleaded with the knowledge demon for even a shred of future sight. None had ever been granted that request, but his sight was as reliable as your own senses. Ever true. Undeniable.

Mundus had risen once before, bent on “unifying” human and demon realms alike in darkness, a single plane for him to rule over. To that end, thousands of people had been killed to fuel the devilish tree known as the Qliphoth. From the blood of those killed, there bore a single fruit that granted the demon power enough to begin with his plans. Sparda’s intervention had been the only thing to spare humanity from total annihilation after Mundus’ ascension. If he were permitted to fully awaken once more, there wouldn’t be anyone to stop it this time. Sparda was dead, and had been for a long time. You knew all of this, had been educated in it since you first learned Stolas’ true name. Even so…

“Why are you...speaking as though you’ll be gone soon?” You fearfully spoke.

“I foresaw my own death decades ago,” the ancient one answered, chuckling. “Entering the rift to retrieve the swords was akin to sounding an alarm. It will not be long before Mundus’ servants find me. They will make me answer for the crime of siding with Sparda the blood-traitor. Now, there’s not a need for fear, not yet. That day is still far off. Lest you forget, little one, I’ve my own legions of loyal demons.”

It was honestly something you’d given little thought to. So content in your life as a quiet librarian’s ward, you often forgot about his true nature. Life had been so simple for you, free of many worldly worries. Had you really thought that would continue forever? Inheriting the archive meant inheriting all of Stolas’s centuries of knowledge and duties. You, a ‘mere’ human, would be gifted with something willingly, something that others had begged and killed for.

It just hadn’t really sunk in yet, you supposed. You’d never given yourself much importance in the world, content only to do your job out of your own appreciation for your life being saved, and your own love of the archive. It was certainly humbling.

“Why this? Why now?” You asked. “If there’s still time before it happens, why is now the time to bring it up?”

“It is better to be prepared well beforehand instead of being blindsided. Aside from making  sure you’re here to carry on my work, I have another duty to see through.”

He gestured to the second bundle, though this time you did not move to retrieve it.

“I failed Sparda years ago. I was unable to go to his family’s aid when they were attacked a near decade ago. His human wife, his two sons...all of them gone. His bloodline lives on, though. In spite of everything, it lives on. The blade here is an heirloom, one Sparda intended for his eldest son, Vergil. I merely intended to keep it safe, but now that I know he’s still alive…”

“Wait,” you breathed out in shock. “Wait, wait, wait, that boy who came here is one of the sons of Sparda?”

“I have no proof of such,” Stolas confessed. “But it is not a common name by any means, and given what you said of the feeling you got from him, it’s entirely likely. Those with demonic power can always sense other demons, and however minor yours is, has it ever led you astray?”

Already humbled, already shaken, you could only mumble a response.

“So what are we to do?”

Stolas stood slowly, the weight of missing a leg making the task slow and difficult. He gestured down to the two books you’d been spending so much time on.

“Keep working on this. I must recover my strength from such an injury, so I will not be leaving again for some time. When the son of Sparda returns, I will be here to meet him. Once I’ve rested, you and I will try out that new blade of yours. It should be interesting to have my own power used against me. Aside from that...consider this. The Keeper must always stand at the side of Sparda.”

He left you alone then, to your thoughts and work. You watched him retreat into the living area, tall figure clothed in black. Left with silence, you sank into the chair he’d previously occupied, troubled thoughts making themselves at home.

That was quite the bomb that had been dropped on you. The thought that in a few short years, a terrifying and powerful demon would rise again to slaughter mankind and subjugate the earth was the stuff of nightmares. It just felt too unreal, a hard fact to accept as true. You tried to focus on the poem book before you, looking at one of the pages for so long that the lines began to blur together. It wasn’t any good. No way could you focus now. With a sigh, you stood and grabbed your coat from next to the door. You needed to get out, needed to think, needed to breath. Pausing outside of the building, you went back for the sword you’d been gifted. It wasn’t exactly subtle to carry around, but you were unlikely to run into anyone whose opinions mattered.

The ivy creeping over the archive’s walls glistened brightly in the morning light, dew shining on the leaves. It was comforting to just stare at it for a little while, watching the morning breeze make the leaves dance. It took everything to tear your gaze away, to face the turmoil swirling in your head. Sword clutched in your hands, you followed the path away from the building, breathing deep as you actually looked at your surroundings for once.

So caught up in your own small world of books and history, you often tended to forget that anything else existed. The trees lining the sides of the streets were displaying their full springtime greenery, birds singing cheerily among the branches. Sunlight gently filtered through the clouds above, making the windows of buildings you passed almost look like they were glowing. This was merely the tip of what the world had to offer. There was beauty you could hardly fathom all over, sights and sounds you’d never seen or even dreamed of.

If Mundus were to return, all of this would be gone. Knowing that made you feel a bit ashamed. How long had you spent your days single-mindedly going about your life, thinking yourself better than others simply because you were more fortunate? How long had you carried on while the world around you struggled?

With a sigh, you cast your glance to the skies. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, searching for shapes in the clouds, but eventually you were broken from your reverie by approaching steps, and your senses blazing to life. Shaking yourself, you drew the blade a little bit and turned, just in time to greet a group of small, quadrupedal demons that looked incredibly familiar to you. It was always something like this, some little jolt of danger that awakened you to your surroundings.

The creatures before you resemble dogs in a way, rotting and fleshy, with teeth so numerous they extended back from their jaws, lining their necks. Their eyes glowed red, as red as your own, and they all had huge scythe-like blades upon their feet. Whiplike tails stretched behind the beasts, and you couldn’t help but scoff, just a little.

“Looks like I’ll be testing this out sooner than anticipated.”

Not to say that such lowly demons were worth anyone’s time, but you had certainly skipped a sword lesson or two in recent days. Even so, they couldn’t possibly pose _that_ large of a problem.

You yanked the sword from its scabbard and ran at the closest one, the point of the blade arching in an upward slash. As soon as the blade made contact, it was deflected by the scythe blades on the demon’s feet and it screeched at you, lashing out. You turned to the side to avoid its claws and aimed the sword at its soft underbelly, stabbing the sword in deep.

What happened next was...surprising, to say the least. The area around the wound you created began to turn to stone, crackling and turning grey in a matter of seconds. Swinging the sword to the side, you cracked the half-petrified beast against the wall and the stone splintered, shattering into a thousand pieces. A horrific scream reached your ears as the monster dissolved into nothingness. You had no time to think about the effect of the weapon, this sliver of Stolas’ power. Nor was there any time to worry about if anyone on the street was around to see this happening. You needed only trust in the strength he’d given you in this sword bearing his name.

A dull whooshing sound caught your attention, drawing your gaze to the mouth of an alleyway. There in the ground was a dark purplish swirling mass, the groans and shrieks of demons coming through a small portal. Alarmed, you headed towards it to try to find a way of closing it. It wasn’t large, and nothing large would be able to manifest through it, but the demons you fought seemed to be pouring out of it.

Again and again, the lesser demons charged you, only to meet their demise as the dull grey blade pierced their bodies, turning them all into easily-shattered statues. Never really one for battle, you felt adrenaline course through you all the same, your devil’s eyes alerting you to how many enemies remained. It felt like no matter how many you cut down, more continued to show up. Why were there so many? How had this rift opened up?

Your distraction cost you, a deep gash running along your sword-arm when one of the demons got in a lucky hit. Blood for blood, and you quickly ended the creature’s existence. But you were starting to tire as you got within mere feet of the portal. Blood slipped down your arm, slickening your hold as more demons charged you. You raised the sword high, grip tight, wound burning. You felt yourself begin to panic ever so slightly, reminded too much of that night so many years ago…

Before you could stab the sword into another demon, a blur of dark colors appeared between yourself and the demons, the latter dissolving to dust in an instant. Confusion marred your features, vision slightly blurred, as Vergil appeared as if from nowhere. For a little while, your attention was singularly drawn to him, watching as he slashed the crowding demons with ease, not faltering for even a moment. He moved almost too fast to see, a sword at his side flashing out of its hilt and slicing them into ribbons before returning to place, all in the blink of an eye. He moved with a certain grace you could never hope to match, but you’d knew that grace hardly mattered.

\--------------------------

The first time Stolas had given you a lesson in fighting was right after dawn broke when you were but twelve years old. Taking you to the very alleyway you’d nearly lost your life in, you stood there lethargic in the narrow enclosed space to await instruction. But instruction never came. Instead, your nervous system was shocked to life when he brought down his own blade full force, arching dangerously over your head. Barely alert enough to catch the swing with the training sword, your arms screamed under the weight. Fully alert now, you couldn’t help but gape at the man.

  
“Wh-what the hell? Are you legitimately trying to kill me?”

Stolas paused just long enough to double over with laughter.

“Child, if I wanted to kill you, you’d already be bleeding out on the floor. This is merely training.”

“Well, a little warning would be nice next ti--” You cut yourself off when he swung at you once more, refusing to give you any reprieve. Instinctively you ducked low, unsheathing the too-heavy practice blade. When you stood upright, Stolas was grinning in amusement.

“Do you think you'll receive a warning in a real fight? No, a demon will not offer you a fair fight, so neither should you. Come at me, Alraune. Come at me as if you life depends upon it!”

Words were useless after that. Always a fan of practical learning, you had to say you’d have preferred a written test after eating dirt for the sixth time that day. Your foster father hardly seemed winded, meanwhile you were busy trying to just hold yourself up. Blocking blow after blow, your arms shook with exertion. There wasn’t a single opening for you, and it was only after you took his advice to heart that you were allowed breathing room. The next time he knocked you over, you grabbed up a handful of the rocky dirt and flung it in his face. He sputtered, dropping his guard just long enough for you to hit him in the solar plexus with the practice sword. Backing off, you were surprised when he stood straight with a prideful smile.

“Yes, just so! Go for the eyes, the throat, the joints of the limb. When it comes to demons, hold nothing back if you wish to survive!”

\----------------------------

Vergil did well in keeping up with the sheer number of demons pouring out of the rift, and their numbers did look to be thinning, but the quality of the sword he was using was not up to the task. Soon, you saw his eyes widen ever so slightly when it broke in two, clashing against one of the demons’ claws. Now lacking a weapon, you saw him falter even if only for a second. He could very well die here if he had not been taught the same lesson you had. Live, live no matter what. If you were hasty, you could help him too.

That was all it took for you to haul yourself up, your own blood now coating your arm and sword. Charging forward, you knocked the attacking demon off its feet, the Stolas sword deflecting and breaking one of the wicked claw scythes. A quick stab to the head rendered the demon half-petrified like its brethren, and you let go and stooped low to pick up half of Vergil’s broken sword. It cut into your hand, but that hardly mattered. Throwing it at one of the remaining demons proved useful, stopping it right in its tracks and you watched it dissolve into nothingness. You grabbed up your own sword once more, stepping on the demon-head it was stabbed into to shatter it. Only two demons remained now, one of which skirted around your swing and latched onto your injured arm. Screaming out loud, you rammed it into the wall over and over before finally grabbing up a rock from the ground and shattering its skull. Bleeding even more profusely now, you turned to deal with the final fiend. You were late on the draw, but it hardly mattered. It was already dead, fallen at the feet of Vergil. He had used the other half of the broken sword to impale the beast, and at last the rift closed. Finally, you could breathe easy for a moment.

“Ha…” you panted out, ripping off the bottom of your shirt to tie around your wound. “Well then…”

“We meet again,” he said to you, giving a little smirk, perhaps at the irony.

“Sooner than ah...expected.” You struggled to tie the fabric, end slipping out of your grasp. Stolas was going to be upset. “And perhaps not under the...best circumstances.”

You managed a laugh, sitting yourself with your back to the wall and your hand on your knee so you could better bandage yourself. You refused to ask him for help, eventually managing to get your arm loosely and sloppily wrapped. It would have to do for now. There was an awkward silence, the boy examining his broken sword while you saw to your injury.

“So um...finished those borrowed books already?”

It was a horrible icebreaker. He probably had a thousand questions about what had just happened, why you had a sword, how a rift had opened. Or maybe not, you reasoned. If he was a son of Sparda, he’d already know about all of that. And when he looked at you, not at all seeming surprised by any of it, you knew you were correct. He gazed at you oddly for a moment.

“Among other things,” he said. “I’d also come to see if Alarin had returned yet. These creatures offered an...inconvenience.”

“I’ll say,” you scoffed. “You have good timing, I suppose. He is back, just got in this morning. But he’s recovering from an injury he sustained in his time away. I’ve been tasked with your restoration project, but it’ll take a little time. Regardless, I think given what just happened, meeting him would be best.”

Your arm burned with pain and soreness that made you feel sluggish. It felt odd to talk business, but it helped you to focus on something you knew.

“I-if you’re unhappy with the idea, I can always talk him into it.”

Vergil seemed to just stare at you for a long while, blue eyes boring into you as he almost appeared to be searching for something, some slip in the facade or indication that you were an enemy. But more than that, he wasn’t sure what to make of you. You had appeared as little more than a bookworm last time, despite noticing the pull of his own demonic powers to yours. You’d been wary then, an instinct that kept you at a distance that went beyond mere shyness. So too had he noticed the details of your work last time. Demonic texts weren’t something your everyday librarian worked with, especially not with your level of care. Now he knew why all of it had seemed so strange. But none of it had seemed as strange or left him feeling as odd as you leaping into action when his sword had broken. It was a cheap thing, something found in a pawn shop and restored by his own hand. It was only a matter of time before the thing would break, but he had not been expecting anyone to come to his aid when he was without a weapon. He dismissed the thought. It wasn’t as though you were trying to protect _him_ , so much as you yourself wanted to live. At least, that’s what he told himself. Never mind that you were more badly injured after your little stunt.

After a long, long moment, he spoke.

“If he’s entrusted you with the task, he must think you to be capable enough.”

“Well, I’m glad to have your approval,” you laughed painfully. “I should probably head back...and you should be coming with me.”

“You know who I am.” It was not a question.

“Yes.” You stood, slightly wobbly from blood loss but otherwise strong and assured. “Vergil, the elder son of Sparda...You knew what you were doing in entrusting me with your book. Which means you must already know Alarin’s true name.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I’d say this meeting is long overdue. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

As you walked, you wondered again why you’d been chosen. Was it because of how easily you learned? Was it out of pity? Was there something else, something you weren’t seeing?

You had a feeling you knew, but you’d have to ask your guardian to be sure. The way he spoke of his guilt at failing to protect Sparda’s family earlier had shown a side of Stolas full of regret and...you dared say humanity. It felt in a way that he wanted you to succeed where he could not, even if he didn’t say it. If he wanted you to protect Sparda’s bloodline, so be it. You owed him everything. Even if he wanted you to skin yourself alive for the benefit of another, you’d do it. You’d do it, but only because he was the one making the demand. Without his guidance, without his goals for you, you were _nothing_. Nobody. Just another human without a purpose and no real life to live. You had forsaken your own name to give yourself one more fitting for a world full of demons. Yes, you were human, but it was safe to say you were a very peculiar case.  

So if protecting the bloodline of Sparda, if protecting the man beside you was to be your duty...who were you to deny it?


	5. Temper, Temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry about that! Life just kind of gets in the way sometimes, you know? I had some struggles with writing this chapter due to some writer's block but I've pushed past that to get this done for you all. I'd like to take a moment to thank all of my readers for their continued support of my writing!  
> If you like this story, consider checking out my other work and visiting my tumblr at ghostmanatee.tumblr.com. I've got a fun little Dante/Reader story in the works as well and am considering another Vergil/Reader story based on a sort of Hades and Persephone format once one of these is done. What do you all think?

_The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom._

_-William Blake, Proverbs of Hell_

\-----------------------------------------

The scent of your blood was strong, acrid, and the type of odor that would stick in your nose for hours. It was not enough to do any lingering harm, but it did make you feel a bit light-headed. It was enough that it would alert any lingering lurking demons to your presence, as well. Walking a short distance behind you, studying you, Vergil wondered why you did not simply heal yourself. Surely you had to be aware of how you were broadcasting your presence?

Indeed you were aware, though what he did not know was that you were counting on that fact. If the scent of your freshly-spilled blood was strong enough, Stolas would know that something had happened before you even entered the Archive. Sure enough, he stood in front of the building, leaning heavily upon his cane as he watched you approach. Twisting the ends of your makeshift bandage, you inclined your head and passed right by your benefactor, leaving him to speak with Vergil while you saw to the wound properly.

Without a care, without fanfare, without complaint, you ripped off the bloodied cloth and stuck your arm under the stream of the first sink you could get to. It stung like mad, water going pink from the blood flow, but you just grit your teeth to bear through it. Not to say you strictly _hated_ being human, but moments like these, it was really kind of shitty to be one. If you were a half, or hells, even a quarter demon, you could have healed without any struggle. Alas, you were just a girl out of her league, out of her proper place, with not a drop of demon blood in you anywhere. At least, none that you knew of. You’d have to bleed, suffer, and mend yourself like any other human.

Lucky then, that humans tended to be sturdier than they looked.

The tap ran until the blood did not, and then you lathered your arm with soap and scrubbed until the bleeding began anew. By the time you finished washing the wound out, your arm had gone numb. Stolas kept a well-stocked first aid kit for your sake, and you certainly made good use of it. The end result was a much better wrapping of the wound, along with the sting of extra disinfectant. You prided yourself on the work which wouldn’t require any stitches. Only once it was dressed and you’d gotten a change of shirt did you return to the lobby, but not without pausing to collect yourself. In all honesty, you were quite ashamed to have gotten hurt like that. You should have been more alert, less clumsy. But you couldn’t afford to show any weakness. Not to Vergil, and certainly not to your teacher.

As expected, both of them were inside the lobby area, though it looked like they hadn’t started their conversation yet, sitting in silence. You joined them, hands folded neatly in your lap.

“Ah, she returns,” Stolas said. He eyed your bandaged arm, but didn’t look as annoyed as you’d predicted.

“I’m...sorry to keep you waiting?” you blurted out the half-formed apology. “Had I know I was part of the conversation, I’d have waited to dress my wounds.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you took the proper course of action,” the demon disagreed. “We aren’t in any real hurry, now are we?”

He looked to Vergil at that, the young man seated so regally nearby that you almost felt like you were hosting a prince in your home. He spoke after a moment.

“Not explicitly, no. though, I find myself curious as to why you didn’t merely seal your wounds while we were returning.”

His words were baffling. When had you given any indication that you had abilities like that? Did he have you confused for someone else, or think you were more than you appeared?

“Alraune has no such skills,” Stolas informed him. “She has incidental traces of demonic power clinging to her from a happening many years ago, but she is fully human. Unfortunately, she cannot do that which you or I can.”

You shifted a bit in your seat, uncomfortable at being the center of attention for something like this. If you were contributing to the conversation, sure, that was fine, but given that the conversation so far was to pinpoint your weak humanity, you’d rather be anywhere else. You didn’t say a word though, having already accepted that when it came to power, you were the weakest link. It really did beg the question of why they’d bothered to wait on you though.

Now knowing what you did of Vergil’s heritage, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had something against yours. Was accepting the aid of a human something he saw as a weakness, something to be ashamed of?

“Now then,” Stolas’ voice broke you free of your thoughts. “Let us get down to business. You’ve come for the sword.”

Grateful for the attention to be steered away from you, you looked to Vergil, who gave the slightest incline of his head. Stoals mirrored the action, seeming unconcerned as to how the boy had come to know where the sword would be found. That didn’t stop _you_ from wondering, though. Perhaps it had been written in a will or something of the sort? It did not seem to matter much in the end, not to Stolas, who continued speaking.

“The power of your father. A power which would have been given to you long ago, but could not be delivered because of what happened to your home.”

You saw Vergil grit his teeth, fists upon his knees clenching tight. The remainder of his loss must have been particularly harsh given the matter of fact delivery Stolas used. You could almost scent his anger, kept from taking the form of violence only out of respect for the elder demon. Stolas rose, retrieving the very heirloom in question and presenting it to the young man after a few slow, measured steps. Once in its true owner’s hands, you could swear that Vergil seemed almost comforted by its presence. His grip upon the sheath was as if he held a lifeline now, and he drew the first inch or two of the blade to look upon it in reverence.

“So this is the power of my father, the power of Sparda.”

“It is called the Yamato,” Stolas sat himself back down. “Capable of severing the very threads between this world and that of demons, even if only temporarily. It was this blade that Sparda used to seal away the demon king Mundus. It is his will that you be its wielder now. But...a few words, if I may, before you leave. I am sure you must be quite eager to consider this meeting over and be on your way, but there is something else.”

Now that he had his father’s sword, Vergil indeed looked like he wished to leave, slightly fidgety like he had no further business and was simply awaiting dismissal. In your brief encounters with him so far, it was easy to tell he was not a person who enjoyed wasting his time. He had what he’d come for, so why the delay? You couldn’t say that you blamed him. Stolas had a way of being intimidating to some degree, and to sit through his long lectures was usually painful for those unused to it.

“You may find there are many benefits to returning to this place. It is worth noting that I played an informative role for your father when he was still alive. Should you find yourself in need of such a thing, know that I have chosen Alraune as my successor. She will serve in the same capacity as I did for Sparda.”

You expected some kind of complaint from Vergil, but instead he only stared at you with an unreadable scrutiny. Likewise, you expected Stolas to elaborate, but he looked at you as though he was waiting for _you_ to say something.

Had...had he lost his mind? Was this another test? You were not used to such silence from him with important matters. Certainly he could dance around the issue when it came to you because it amused him to, but you thought he’d have more respect when it came to his old ally’s son.

And maybe it was just the pain in your arm, but you couldn’t bring yourself to remain silent, lacking patience for anymore games.

“Aren’t you forgetting something important?” you spoke. “What of Mundus’ imminent return? You don’t truly intend to just give over the sword and not tell him about the rest, do you?”

“I do indeed, child. Only because you seem to be ahead of that particular portion of explaining,” Stolas answered. “However, it is _his_ sword. What he chooses to do next is up to him.”

You hissed out a breath through your teeth, agitation creeping in.

“You’re going to leave the important explanation to me? Are you preparing to leave your role fully to me so soon?”

You gave him a wan stare, corners of your mouth twitching. Why must he do this here, now, in front of someone so important? It was hardly the time. Turning to Vergil, you dutifully explained.

“You’re probably aware of the name of your family’s killer….” you began, carefully gauging his reaction. He looked as stiff as ever, fists still clenched atop his legs, but made no move to stand or interrupt you. “The murderer of your father, the murderer of your mother, the Demon King Mundus, he is planning a return to this world. I don’t...know what your intent with him is, Stolas, but if you are wanting to have him put a stop to it, shouldn’t you be the one saying these things?”

You couldn’t get a good read on the expression on either male's face, met by a wall of stoicism on both fronts. Only Vergil showed any sort of emotion, but even then it was kept carefully in check. Stolas really must be testing  you, watching with a placidness that was getting to you.

Desperation crept into your veins. Shouldn’t he be showing some kind of annoyance or approval or disapproval or _anything at all?_ Your own jaw clenched, and the mood shifted. You had a pretty good idea of what was going on, and honestly speaking you hated it. Bile crept into the back of your mouth, temper flaring in an instant. You hated to admit that there was a certain resentment you had only recently started to cultivate when you realized you’d never have a normal life. You had been fine with the idea before, but now with things coming to a head and Vergil’s involvement, you realized how odd it was. Stolas had all the power to put Mundus’ plans to an end himself, didn’t he?

No, you supposed. After maiming himself to create the sword he’d given to you, he’d limited his own powers. As for you, you were useful to him as his apprentice, but you lacked the strength to destroy his old enemy. Words slipped out of you before you could stop them.

“If you’re going to use someone, shouldn’t you at least tell them what you’re using them for?”

Too late were you aware of your impatience, your impertinence. Shame cooled the fire that had been lit, but there was no way to take back what had already been said.

Only a fool or an idiot would lower their gaze after such a bold question, so you didn’t bother to try. You kept your head up, your embarrassment plain as day.

Slowly did the ancient Keeper rise, the man’s bearing completely unaffected by his lack of a limb. You braced yourself for a reprimand right in front of the son of Sparda.

“Such impatience,” spoke the old one. “I suppose such _is_ natural for a human. Your time in this world is so limited, it is instinctual for you to make the most of it.”

Stolas chuckled, the deep and dry sound reminding you of autumn leaves blowing in the wind.

“You have ever been an impatient, eager child. Excessively so.”

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,” Vergil spoke suddenly.

He didn’t seem annoyed. If anything, some of his own tension seemed to be gone, and you had his full attention. Stolas shook with silent laughter once more, moving to stand behind you and place a hand upon your shoulder. Your confusion only grew.

“Indeed it does. While my apprentice may be a bit misguided in _how_ she chose to speak, she speaks true. I very well could simply give you the Yamato and send you on your merry way to do as your heart desires. But, that would be irresponsible and an incomplete execution of my duties. Perhaps it is best that she cut to the chase. It is true that even as we speak, Mundus amasses his allies and recovers his strength, biding his time to make a return. Ultimately, it is your decision to make, but if you choose to put an end to him, then we will aid you as we can.”

The young man who the burden would be placed upon considered what he’d heard. He knew about Mundus already, though he’d not known his name until you said it. How could he possibly forget the way his family had been torn asunder, the way his mother had…

No. Now was not the time to think about that.

What mattered was that he fully intended to take revenge. But to do so, he needed power, needed knowledge, things he had previously had fairly limited access to. Until now. How patiently he’d bided his own time, explicitly waiting for something like this.

“It happens that your goals and mine align. Gladly will I accept your aid,” he spoke at last.

Stolas was far from oblivious to the cold anger and hatred that still lived in the young man’s eyes. He didn’t need a devil’s powers to see it. How easily this son of his old friend could choose the wrong path if given the wrong guidance. Certainly he might listen to the words of an old demon like himself, but how much would really sink in? What would matter most to impart? Without even having to think about it, he knew the answer.

Your humanity was exactly the touch needed. Far from being angered at you questioning him, it was exactly what he’d hoped for. You could question Vergil as well.  He did not hesitate in speaking again.

“Then my apprentice will be your guide. Human though she may be, she fully understands the world we live in. Indeed, her being human gives her a different perspective from ours. I’m aware that you may feel reluctant, but she can be present here when I cannot. You would do well not to discount her simply because of her blood.”

“But do you fathom the gravity of it?” Vergil asked you. Staring right at him, red eyes met blue. Honestly, you didn’t really blame him for being doubtful. But your time here in the archives faded for just a moment, overshadowed by memories of your mother’s hateful gaze. Your father was dead because of what he’d tried to do. You had almost died as a result, left alone and woken to the blazing eyes of demons in the dark. Death lingered all around you, it seemed.

You wondered, not for the first time, if you’d been cursed that night, if your mother had been right in throwing you away.

“More than you may think,” you said.

And perhaps it was because of the way your eyes seemed more like a demon’s than even his, but the son of Sparda found himself agreeing to those terms.

\---------------------------

Despite the gravity of agreeing to help see to Mundus’ permanent downfall, life returned to a relative sense of normalcy. Your arm healed fine, to leave behind yet another scar, another reminder of weakness. Stolas came and went for odd spans of time, leaving the archive in your care. This meant, frustratingly, that your sword lessons were put on hold. After your utter failure before, you’d been eager to get back on track so that you weren’t putting yourself in a position where you’d have to rest and heal after every single battle you’d fight. But it was going to have to wait, and you had plenty of other things to keep you busy anyway.

You’d devoted yourself to the book restoration with a new sort of fervor, eager to leave no project unfinished before the confrontation was ultimately to take place. Though you had no idea how much time any of you had before that would be, it was best to be organized well before the day came to pass.

Before, you’d only given thought to the book as a project. But really taking the time to sit and dissemble it, and then to start working on the damaged vellum piece by piece meant that you actually took the time to read its contents.

You weren’t really a poetry kind of girl.  You knew enough to properly direct inquiries and answer questions, but it wasn’t like you to sit and read thoroughly enough to analyze. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t interested in what made this book so special to Vergil.

As it turned out, WIlliam Blake’s poems were all things of beauty. The artistry of the illustrations on every page was utterly stunning, intricate and beautiful and something you wouldn’t be able to simply copy. You just hoped your restoration work wouldn’t be too obvious, preserving the integrity of the book. The poems themselves were stunning, too, and as you worked you studied them all carefully, thinking about what was intended by the author. As a result, you read them out loud quite often. It was when you were reading one such poem that Vergil arrived once more, unseen and unheard in the midst of your distraction.

“Ah, sunflower, weary of time, who countest the steps of the sun; seeking after that sweet golden clime where the traveler’s journey is done.” You paused, humming thoughtfully over the verse. “It speaks of aspirations perhaps? A yearning, clearly...the flower must be no flower at all, but represent a person longing for something. Mm, then again maybe not?”

You began to read the second verse, silently this time, when Vergil began reciting it, making you flinch in surprise at his presence. He showed no reaction to your jump. 

“'Where the Youth pined away with desire, and the pale Virgin shrouded in snow; Arise from their grave and aspire, where my sunflower wishes to go.’ You aren’t entirely incorrect in your analysis, though it is a rather amateur one.”

“Vergil...Ah...well met?”

It had been a couple of weeks since your last meeting, and during that time you had done all in your power to forget about how you’d shown your temper, even if just for a moment. Fortunately, it seemed he was just as eager to avoid speaking of it. It was a waste of time to do so anyhow. He’d come here with a  purpose, it was clear, as he only regarded you with a slight nod of his head.

“Is Stolas around?”

“No, he’s out on some kind of investigation. But is there something I can help with in his stead?”

He regarded you in a manner that made you fidget, crawling under your skin and making  you feel uncomfortable. In all honesty, he was still a bit unsure of what to make of you. The revelation that you were a human was surprising to him, only because of the role you had. He’d never heard of a situation like it. Demons were not like to aid a human at all, let alone treat one as an equal.

“What is it about you?” he wondered aloud, making you set aside your work to give him your full attention.

“Pardon?” you said.

He raked a hand through his hair, clearly having not intended to ask that out loud. But he followed up anyway.

“Why would an ally of my father choose someone so lacking as his successor?”

Immediately, that anger from before crept back in, bubbling up in your chest like acid. The back of your mouth tasted bitter all of a sudden, like you’d bitten into the pith of an orange. Such derision, tinged only with the slightest hint of genuine curiosity...it was one thing to wonder at such a question  yourself. To hear it asked in such a way, like you didn’t deserve to be where you were...it _burned_ you.

“When I was a child, my own father tried to sacrifice me for power. That attempt backfired and granted me the ability to see things ordinary people can’t. Stolas chose me because it suited him. Who am I to question it?” You snapped, pride and anger both getting the better of you. “And who are _you_ to question it, for that matter? _I_ am the next Keeper, not _you."_

Time seemed to pause as the two of you stared at one another, animosity rising off of you in waves. You had always managed to keep your composure before he came into the picture. You’d never questioned yourself so much. And prior to him opening his mouth just then, you’d been all too happy with the idea of helping him. Now, however, you were sort of starting to understand why Stolas operated the way he did.

Your anger certainly gave Vergil pause, and after a while he unexpectedly smiled. Just a tiny upturn of his lips, but it was a smile regardless. You wouldn’t know it then, or even for a fair number of years, but your fire amused him, your sense of pride speaking to his own.

“My sincerest apologies,” he answered. “I was enjoying our talk of poetry enough that I seemed to forget to whom I was speaking.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were a hundred percent sure that he was mocking you somehow, but you had no evidence. Your expression remained delicately annoyed.

“Now then,” you repeated. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

“I do believe so, actually,” he answered. “To defeat the Demon King and prevent his uprisal, I intend to seek out the power of my father.”

You scoffed at that. It was kind of funny, really, how quickly your opinion of him had seemed to change. He was a strong fighter to be sure, and handsome, but the condescending aura he had was as cold as ice.

(Years later, you’d muse on it and laugh, knowing it was all thanks to teenage hormones that you kept flip-flopping.)

“The power you have now isn’t enough?”

“No,” came his quick answer. “It is not.  As Stolas has appointed you in aiding me, I want you to tell me all that you know about the battle that occured before Sparda’s death.”

Tamping down the urge to ask impetuously _why_ you should do that, you adopted your tone of professionalism again. Better to focus on that rather than the urge you were having to roll your eyes at him or laugh in his face.

“I will. Under one condition.”

Later, much later, you’d wonder if you’d gone mad in that moment. Hardly in a position to make demands, you did so anyway. Feeling the dull ache of your recently-healed arm, you thought that if he was going to be getting something out of this, you might as well too.

His question of your worthiness hadn’t helped.

“A tradeoff,” you elaborated. “I tell you what you need to know, and you help me improve my sword arm.”

With Stolas coming and going so often, you knew lessons would be few and far between. You already felt so far behind…

“Very well,” Vergil said without hesitation. “Power and knowledge go hand in hand. It’s a reasonable request to make.”

“You’re...serious?”

“I do not agree to such arrangements unless I am serious,” he answered. “Such would be a waste of my energy.”

“I...very well. We have a deal then, I suppose.”

You shook hands on it, and for the first time, it actually felt like you might have a semblance of control of your own actions. You wondered what your mentor would have to say about it all. It was something of a struggle to retain your composure in the face of how agreeable Vergil was now being. Perhaps you had taken the slight too far and misjudged him?

“Indeed. In this way, we can see _how_ lacking you are when it comes to swordplay. Your little spat with the lesser demons was sloppy at best.”

...maybe not.

You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose, deciding it best to let it go for the time being. Stress was best dealt with by focusing on work, and you could always take your anger out on him during the lessons. Had you not been blinded by annoyance, you’d have realized he was teasing you. Ruffling your feathers was more fun than he expected, and all too easy.

“Few know of how exactly the battle between the two happened, or how long they raged against one another,” you spoke. “In the end, Sparda was unable to truly slay Mundus. Perhaps it was truly impossible, or perhaps honor dictated he couldn’t slay his own kin? Either way, Mundus was sealed away in the Demon World for eons. Fearful that he might become the same as Mundus due to his own extensive power, Sparda sealed away his power in the underworld. His duty complete, the world safe, Sparda settled into an existence of peace with a human woman, who bore twin sons to carry on his legacy.”

It felt like the words flowing from your mouth were practiced, rehearsed over and over again to get them just right. You could almost see them printed on the back of your eyelids, hear Stolas’ voice as he recited the story to you time and time again.

“That is where the story _should_ have ended, with eternal peace for the demon who saved mankind. But with Mundus only being sealed away, he still had followers to carry out his work, those that remained loyal to him. It was the will of his followers that his reign should continue. They found Sparda, and they pursued him relentlessly until he was killed. With his power sealed away, he was unfathomably weaker at that time. I imagine he was gone already when you were quite young. It was just you and your mother for a time, wasn’t it?”

The seriousness of the tale got to you, and thought it was only conjecture that had you saying that last part, it was enough to have you put aside your anger with ease. Strange it was, realizing there were a few parallels to your own life. After your father’s execution, it had been just you and your mother too.

Only, you thought, Vergil’s had probably actually loved him.

The young man was silent for a time, as if to soak in the details of everything you told him. He walked near the desk, closer to you, looking down at the work you’d done on his book so far. A wistful look fell upon his features as he reached a hand down, fingers carefully tracing the lettering on the page with the sunflower poem.

“We were eight when they came for us,” Vergil spoke. “I was playing outside, and Dante was inside with mother. By the time I got home, my mother was dead and my brother was gone.”

He’d been alone since? It was no wonder then that he felt so detached. You were surprised that he managed to smile at all. Lesser men had been broken over more minor incidents. There was a danger in this, however. The oldest cliche in the book, revenge could turn into something worse if one wasn’t careful. You had to tread carefully lest your own suggestion that he should kill his family’s killer contribute to the path he walked in the worst way.

Why did it always come to that, anyway? Demons, humans...they were all the same. All blinded by a need for power once they had a taste of it. You only hoped that he wouldn't do the same.

“The part of the story no one seems to know,” you continued. “Is how and where Sparda hid his old sword. That is a secret he didn’t even tell Stolas, not directly. So if that’s what you’re seeking, it will take more work and searching.”

“There is nothing here within the archives?”

“Nothing obvious, no. then again, it isn’t as though we knew to look for such a thing before. I’ll have a search and get back to you. In the meantime…”

“You wish to begin your lessons already?”

“Of course I want to. You seem in a hurry to reach your own end goal, so why wouldn’t I want the same for myself?”

He laughed, actually laughed at your words, a rich chuckling that had you gritting your teeth in annoyance.

“Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you,” he quoted. “However, there are those who find such honesty refreshing. I’ll return tomorrow. You’d do well to be prepared.”

With that, he was gone, the encounter over as quickly as it had begun. You felt as frustrated and annoyed as the last time you’d been in the same room, and wondered if this was just how it was going to be from now on.

 


	6. The Din

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training with Vergil is slow progress, but important, and home comes back to haunt you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! Back at it again with another chapter after a bit of a hiatus! I'm going to make a more concerted effort to keep updates regular, but I'll still continue to go at my own pace. Soon now we get to get into some serious developments. Please enjoy!

_ The sun descending in the west, _

_ The evening star does shine;  _

_ The birds are silent in their nest _

_ And I must seek for mine _

_ -William Blake, “Night” _

\---------------------------------------

If you had said to anyone that you were excited for your impending sword lessons, you’d be a liar true. Never one to enjoy or take well to feats of martial prowess, you’d much prefer to continue your daily routine as normal. But this was necessary, a part of what you perceived to be your duties. As well, to not use or know how to use the gift given to you by your guardian would be an insult. So you steeled yourself, fully prepared to get thrown on your rear again. 

It was raining the next morning, the sort of light but steady drizzle to fog up windows and gradually turn the ground to mud, likely to keep most people indoors for the day. You had doubts that the rain would forstall your sparring with Vergil, however, and so you prepared early in the morning anyhow. Hair pulled back, clothing practical, you sat at your typical workstation completing a chapter’s worth of restoration work while you waited for the young man to arrive. 

You could not help but wonder at the frequent absence of your benefactor as of late. It wasn’t unusual for him to be a little secretive about his doings, but he usually left at least a  _ hint  _ as to what he was doing. These latest ventures had been devoid of such, leading you to wonder if the place he was going was merely one where you could not follow. It hearkened back to the visions he’d described, the rapid approach of his demise. 

He hadn’t just gone off to die alone somewhere, had he?

The thought alone filled you with such an immense feeling of dread that you felt nearly sick. If there was one thing in the world that you feared more than any other, it was the idea of being abandoned once more. Early on, you’d often had nightmares of the ritual you’d been a part of as a child, or you’d wake from visions of the day you were left in this strange, sleepy city. 

It wasn’t to say you’d be unable to take care of yourself if you were alone, but there were so many things left unsaid to your savior. Even if he couldn’t truly grasp human sentiment, Stolas would understand your intent. Ever elusive, ever enigmatic, you never did understand why he’d saved you, nor did you know what his thoughts and feelings were, or what he viewed to be his endgame. Demons as a general rule were lacking when it came to affection, with but few exceptions. Thus had you grown up wondering what a parent’s love must feel like, having only scant memories of such warmth. It was strange how your memories of Fortuna felt like they faded more and more each day. All the same, Stolas was the closest thing to a parent that you had. 

You wanted to make him proud. 

Pulling yourself from your thoughts, you set aside your work, retrieved your sword, and decided to go for a walk. Others might despise this weather, but walking in the rain always touched on something primal deep within you. It was easy to fade into the rain, heartbeat matching the tempo of the drops while a clap of thunder in the distance vibrated deep in your ribcage. In these moments, you felt as though you were the only person in the world, and yet not a person at all. You may as well be a stone in the river while the world moved and flowed around you. You were nothing at all, and yet connected to everything, and somehow that was comforting. 

The music of the storm helped to banish the trepidation surrounding Stolas’ absence. As soon as he returned, you’d have a thousand questions for him, but for the time being you had a limited ability to do much at all. All the better then, that you’d be greeting Vergil soon enough. Already over the din of the rain could you sense him, his presence pulling at the edges of your consciousness like the threads of a spider’s web. 

Yes, you could feel him before you could see him, and it was a good thing you did. Reflexes kicking into overdrive, your body spun in time to catch the blade of Yamato with your own sword. Rain kicking up around you, droplets flying from the ends of your hair, you quirked a brow at Vergil’s arrival. 

“I see you and Stolas have similar teaching methods,” you remarked, disengaging to put some distance between the two of you. 

That drew a dry, sardonic chuckle out of the male as he sheathed Yamato, relaxing his stance. 

“I should think you of all people would understand the value of learning through experience.” 

“Oh, I certainly do,” you countered. “But that doesn’t always mean it’s an enjoyable experience. Would one enjoy having a hawk swoop at them unexpectedly?” 

“And yet you requested such,” he retorted. 

“I’m aware of the irony,”  you snorted. 

This was good, a good distraction to keep you from fixating on the other problems and worries. Your grip on the hilt of your sword tightened a bit, but you did not move to attack. It was clear enough by his stance that Vergil had no intention of fighting you out in the open. Quiet as the city was, there was always a risk of pedestrians, wanderers, or vagabonds stumbling upon the match. Neither of you were keen on explaining the swords to say, a police officer. A better training ground was necessary. 

There was an empty building nearby, once housing an eatery that had long since gone out of business and now sat gathering dust. It was here that the two of you would spar, seeming to agree wordlessly to utilize the space. Slipping in through the loose boards over a window, you felt a bit like you were doing something wicked, something delinquent. Of course, you weren’t really, and you chided yourself for thinking something like that…

_ ‘Sounds like something a goody two-shoes would say,’ _ you thought. 

Still, the idea of it was enough to coax a smile from you, even knowing that utter defeat awaited you. 

Vergil did not hesitate. As soon as you were both within the space, he was swinging steel at you, forcing you to parry his assault. His arm was powerful indeed, highlighting the vast difference between you in strength. While his fighting had been vicious and yet refined before, having the Yamato in his hands seemed to give him a new sort of confidence that only added to his ferocity. There was little time to wonder at this, though. He was clearly testing your capabilities, and it quickly became clear that you were at a disadvantage. The Yamato was easily his height, keeping you at a distance with your own much shorter blade. Swords locked together, arms trembling, you searched for an opening. The desperation showed, though, and he scoffed at your openly searching gaze. 

“What’s wrong? Are you being defeated already?”

Gritting your teeth, you tried not to let your irritation show. But your face, so honest and expressive, gave you away. Vergil seemed adamant in prodding at you in any possible way, and you’d only been at this for a few seconds. He stepped away, moving to sheathe the sword. 

“If your emotions are getting in the way so early, perhaps this is best left for another day,” he said tauntingly. 

You swung at him, missing hsi face by a mere hair’s breadth. There was no way you were letting him brush you aside like that, no way he’d get the better of you. You drew back your dominant arm, fist curled for a punch, but soon found yourself on the ground with your arm twisted behind your back. A pained groan escaped you and you tried to roll out of his grasp, but he was incredibly strong. 

“Anger can be a powerful tool,” Vergil said to you, holding fast against your squirming. Your shoulder joint seared with pain. Gods, how strong  _ was  _ he?

“But I agreed to teach you swordplay, not to fight like a rabid animal. You’re already well-versed in that.” 

The insult burned within you, but deep down you knew that was what it was intended for. Your arm ached, shoulder needing to be let loose, and you squirmed one last time before lying still. How you wanted to leap up, punch him in the throat, and let loose with your anger…

“Mm...you’re holding back,” Vergil observed. You flinched visibly. “Why?”

“It’s the duty of Stolas and his ilk to protect and serve your bloodline. A-attacking you or more accurately going...going full force goes against that,” you answered, teeth grinding together. 

Vergil scoffed. 

“Do you believe you’d stand a chance if you were legitimately trying?”

Oh, you were absolutely  _ enraged _ . Rolling sharply, you felt your arm pop, an agonizing heat broiling your entire arm. It didn’t feel dislocated, though, just strained. You could work with that. Standing up shakily, you saw that your snide opponent was actually laughing, low and rich chuckles escaping his mouth. What?

He genuinely seemed to be enjoying this, either the act of fighting you, or just tormenting you, you weren't sure which. It was enough to have you ready your sword once more, this time out of pure spite. 

“What the hell’s your problem?” you snapped. “Some teacher you are! I came here to learn from you, not to be humiliated.” 

“My apologies,” he answered, not sounding sorry at all. “With how you fought last time, I was certain you’d be up to the task. What a shame.” 

“Don’t patronize me,” you shot back. 

“Then face me head-on. Show me your strength. I need to assess your skill before you’ll be able to learn anything.” 

Already breathing hard from exertion, you steeled yourself for his next attack, which of course he didn’t hesitate to deliver. This time you did manage to catch it, blades clashing hard enough to jostle your frame. It was clear that he’d intended for it to happen, which only further fueled your fury. His patronizing tone, his relentless approach to this training...was he being serious in his teaching or was he merely toying with you for fun? It honestly seemed like a bit of both, judging by the sneer on his face when the blades parted. Absolutely infuriated, you charged in to try stabbing at his legs. He read your movements and swung Yamato down in a wide arc, the sword’s tip audibly whipping through the air. This time, you didn’t try to clash. Instead, your forearm came up as you stepped in towards him and then to his right. This was a risky move, but you used the momentum of his swing to press your forearm to his elbow, nudging the blade away from you. Your own sword came down near his shoulder, but a quick pivot of his body had Yamato blocking the attack. 

Painfully obvious was the difference in skill, the valley between the two of you. You knew enough to survive, enough to kill demons of a lesser variety, but against someone of his sheer strength and skill, you were guaranteed a loss. If you were to face off with him seriously as a battle for survival, he’d have you dead on the ground in moments. 

Finally seeming satisfied for the moment, he sheathed his sword and took a few steps away from you, indicating that he had no more intent to continue. Well, you weren’t going to argue with that just yet, grateful for a moment to just breathe. 

“You’re good at defending,” he conceded. “But if you expect to survive against a greater threat, you need to learn how to go on the offensive.” 

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Was that not the entire point of this endeavor? That is what I've learned so far. To avoid direct contact with such a foe, and how to make it out alive if I’m forced into it.” 

“And were your potential threats limited to humans and lesser demons, that would be practical and sufficient knowledge,” Vergil spoke. “You have a lot to learn.” 

You supposed that made sense. You were undoubtedly at a huge disadvantage against anything smarter or stronger than what you’d faced already. Some of the anger dissipated from you, but frustration lingered. 

“Who taught you, then?” you asked in turn. “You’re far too skilled to be only a recent learner.” 

He did not answer you willingly, or immediately. Indeed, he was silent for a long enough time that you wondered if he’d heard you at all. You sighed, readying yourself to leave. 

“The memories are faint, but I recall playing swords with my brother when we were young.” 

The answer seemed like a painful one for him to give, and you weren’t quite sure how to respond to that. Even if you were still irritated from your humiliating attempt at fighting, you weren’t about to be dismissive with someone like him for sharing something of his past. 

“You’ve been fighting for a long time, then,” you said. “Near your entire lifetime. Hah, it’s no wonder I didn’t even have a chance at winning.” 

It wasn’t your place to question things, but you couldn’t help but pry just a tiny bit more. 

“How often did you beat hm, then?” 

“If you think I did not win more often than not, you’re a foolish girl indeed,” he scoffed. 

Whatever somber note had settled in was now gone, scattered like leaves in the wind. Even your aggravation was leaving you, lacking the energy to hold onto it.  You inspected your sword to make sure the edge had not chipped, but it was as sharp and pristine as before. You sighed into the awkward silence, unsure of what to do next. 

“Your book is nearly finished,” you said at last. Might as well try to be civil and converse. Clearly, holding onto anger was getting you nowhere right now. “The damage towards the end isn’t as severe.” 

“Is that so? And what of the demonic text in the background of some of the images?” 

“It’s an older dialect, but I think for the most part the words are a translation of the poems. I haven't noticed anything odd about the text. It’s as though the words were put there so that you’d specifically have the poems in both languages,” you answered. 

Why did your conversations always come back to books? Certainly Vergil was an unusual young man, but you found the lack of common ground to be frustrating. He was a tough nut to crack, but at least he was as passionate about the written word as you were.

“There are hints that there may be something more, but as of yet there are some lines left to translate. As to the details we discussed last time, I have yet to find anything useful,” you continued. 

“Mm. Then this is where our lesson ends for today.” 

“Wait...what? Are you kidding me?”

You whipped your head up, fully attentive, face incredulous. Vergil was already walking, moving for the boarded window despite your attempts to intercept him. 

“Why are you...where are you going?” 

He fixed you with his cold, icy blue eyes. That single bit of information he’d given you must’ve made him feel vulnerable. Gone was the relaxed, if cocky air of before. In its place was detachment, dismissal. How disheartening, how strange…

“You’ve given me nothing useful, and so I will follow your lead. If you truly expect to be taught, you’d do well to give me something to work with.” 

So that was it?

“You’re dismissing me because I lack the ability to scour the whole archive for a bit of obscure information in a single night?” 

To hell with civility, you thought. You’d come out here early in the morning, devoted your own time expressly for this purpose, and you’d be damned if you accepted that answer. 

Such patronizing arrogance...it was one of your few complaints about Stolas, too. How many times had he set you to a task that had taken you longer than expected to complete, only to fix his disappointed gaze upon you when it wasn’t done in his designated timeframe?

“I suppose that’s to be expected of a human,” he often said. 

Then why did he even bother in the first place? It was unfair to expect miracles of you, but you always completed your tasks in the end. 

You anger sparked anew, this time with frustration at thoughts you’d let build up over the years. It had been sleeping inside of you for an age, awakened by a simple, casual dismissal. 

“Come on, I doubt even  _ you  _ are that arrogant. What’s the real reason, hm? Upset that you remembered for a second that you’ve got a human half too?” 

“You’d do well to watch yourself, girl.” 

He was right, but now that your temper was flaring, there was no turning back. 

“Fuck you!” you spat. “You don’t get to dismiss me just because I’m a human!” 

In your rage, you’d drawn your blade and charged him, adrenaline putting more force behind your swings. You were so tired of being cast aside...first by your family, and now by him. Hells, you even questioned Stolas’ intent. Were you just a tool to him too? No, no that couldn’t be right. Why would he have bothered with anything? Your care, your education...he’d even spent time indulging your childish whims when you were younger. If you were a mere pawn, why would the demon have wasted his time on that? 

Hating Vergil for making you question yourself, you were vicious in your assault. 

“How dare you?” You slashed upwards at him, the edge of Yamato easily deflecting your strike. But you would not relent. Not now. “You and I are the  _ same _ !” 

On your next upward swing, your foot kicked out, catching him in the stomach. As your leg came back down he caught you by the ankle and pulled hard, knocking you off your feet. Yamato’s tip rested on your throat. You’d lost. 

But Vergil finally looked ruffled in a way, finally stopped playing around and took you seriously, if only for that moment. You’d lost...but you were grinning wildly. The point of your sword rested on his stomach. A stalemate?

“Gotcha,” you gave a single, harsh laugh. 

He sheathed Yamato and stepped away. He didn’t offer to help you up, not that you’d want it, and you hauled yourself to your feet. You felt...oddly good, refreshed in a way you’d never considered. The anger was all gone now, and you felt like you’d just finished a workout. Technically, you supposed, that was true. You were all too aware of the words you’d thrown around, but Vergil didn’t address them. 

“Maybe I’m clumsy and unrefined,” you said at last. “But at least I got my point across.” 

“You are a far more impulsive and crass woman than I expected,” Vergil answered. “A truly foolish girl indeed.” 

He said it like an insult almost, but his tone was even and you could swear he was smiling a little. 

“I just don’t want to be looked down on,” you said. “So, will you teach me that move you just did?” 

\--------------------------

‘If your opponent is taller than you, heavier, aim for their most vulnerable spots. The jaw, the throat, the face, not the core. The kidneys, not the shoulders or stomach. The inner knee, not the ankle.” 

After the first lesson, Vergil returned every day for a week. No more harsh words flew, but it was clear to you now that you had quite a lot of repressed anger within you. At first, it manifested in distraction and liability. You’d lost count of how many scrapes of the knee, cuts of the lip, and bruises of the flesh you’d earned the last few days. These fights, these lessons felt cathartic though. Every failed blow, every new bruise, every taunting sidestep was another rung in the ladder. Vergil fought with the grace, speed, and precision of a cobra, while yours were the steps of a clumsy bear cub. You feared you’d never attain even close to his level of skill, and that made you fail yet again when you tried to mimic his movements. Such strikes weren’t meant for your shorter, broader sword, and your body was completely unused to his stances. A single attempt was enough to have you stumble over all on your own, with next to no effort on his part. You heard him take in a breath that might be the start of a laugh, and you turned away in shame. 

“Don’t look at me,” you sputtered. 

“What swims in the sea cannot soar in the sky,” he retorted, clearly amused at your clumsy attempt. “You must play to your own strengths.”

Strengths like agility, your leg strength, your lower center of gravity. Hard to notice at first, you discovered them regardless during your lessons. Forced to almost dance around your quasi-instructor, you soon found that these sessions were actually enjoyable. It was not long before you were able to clash with him on slightly more equal footing, your ability to defend and dodge around him becoming essential to your dueling. Not that you could ever hope to truly defeat him. Your skills were still miles apart. If he wanted, he could easily throw you off-balance and have his blade at your throat. But after a while, it became clear to you that Vergil enjoyed these fights in his own way too. 

Having such an outlet for the bitter anger you’d never confronted before gave you more clarity, better focus. On the eve of your fifth spar, you searched in the archive with a new fervor, searching for some tidbit that might further the hunt for the sealed power of Sparda. After what felt like hours of fruitless searching, you slammed down the book you were scouring and leaned back in your chair to regard the son of Sparda, who had joined you in your searching. 

“I feel like we’re looking in the same places over and over. How is it we haven’t even found a hint? I understand wanting to hide his power from Mundus, but you’d think he would have left something behind. You’re certain he left you no clues at all?”

“Such a thing would likely have endangered my family more,” Vergil answered, setting aside his own tome. You’d completed the restoration of his poetry anthology the night before, using the rush of energy from your sword lesson to power through into the small hours of the morning. You had to say you were quite proud of your work. All of the torn pages were fixed, faded words refreshed, its mangled cover replaced and embellished with gold embossing bearing the letter V. While you’d intended it as something of a joke, referring to how he’d first introduced himself to you, he didn’t seem insulted. In fact, the book had not left his side since you had handed it to him. That made you feel even more pride. 

“Maybe Mundus thought your family  _ did  _ have such information?” you spoke. “But if we’ve exhausted our options so far, we have to ask Stolas once he returns. Surely he has to have at least  _ some  _ idea, even if it’s a vague one.” 

“Speaking of, where has your benefactor gone this time?”

“I wish I knew,” you answered, sighing heavily. “He left at the start of the week with nary a word. He didn’t give an indication of when he’d return, either. I wonder sometimes if he intends to return at all.” 

Vergil set the book of poems aside and stood, stalking to the window to glance out at the setting sun. Orange light fell across his features, making him almost seem to glow. 

_ ‘Stop that,’ _ you thought, rolling your eyes at your ideas. 

“I wonder,” he mused. “If he is not testing  you.” 

“I wonder that myself,” you answered. “He has always been difficult to read...but I owe him everything that I am. I’m sure it sounds strange, a human following the whims of a demon outside of some kind of bargain. In truth, he is more like a father to me than just a teacher. Without him, I would have died twelve years ago when I came to this place.”

Unsure of what had compelled you to speak of it, you carried on regardless. 

“I don’t remember my home much, and all I recall of my family is that they were indifferent at best. After what my father did, that indifference turned to hatred. They used me, their own child, trying to obtain power. When it didn’t work? I was thrown out like garbage, told I was cursed. Demons might be known for their cruelty, but I’ve seen things that make humans worse than any demon. So yeah...I’ll follow his lead, for as long as he wishes it. He doesn’t seem like it, but he’s actually pretty empathetic, for a devil.” 

He had to be, to have raised you. Even if you were just a tool, even if this was merely your duty, you would see it through. If it could repay him even in part for saving you, you’d carry on. It was all you needed. 

The thought was enough to have you smiling a bit, even with your guest’s total silence. That was fine. You hadn’t been expecting him to say a thing at all. Glancing back down at your notes, your eyes caught a passage that you’d somehow missed before. Scanning it quickly, you were surprised by what it mentioned, and so you read it aloud. 

“In recent years, inhabitants of the island of Fortuna. Fortuna… That’s where I was born. Ah, residents  have claimed to have discovered a great tower dating back to ancient Babylonian times. This structure, known as the Devil’s Tower or the Temen-ni-Gru, once served as a passage between worlds. Though it is unknown where the tower originated…” 

The passage did not end there, but something had you pausing, frozen completely while your intuition first prickled and then viciously flared to life. This was different from the little tugs at your consciousness. This was no gentle warning. No, it was a fierce and urgent call, like a scream splitting your head open. It was so intense, so sudden that you fell from your chair, taking books and papers with you.  

Vergil was on his feet in an instant, Yamato unsheathed with haste. The both of you could sense it, the presence of something huge, something incredibly powerful and dangerous nearby. Once you finally managed to haul yourself up, you could feel another presence, a familiar one. 

“Stolas,” you whispered, horrified. 

You struggled to stand fully, white-hot pain still blazing behind your eyeballs. You didn’t get very far before Vergil passed right by you, staring down at you with an unreadable expression. 

“You’d be wise to stay here. I will locate the Keeper, but if he falls...preservation of this place is important, is it not?”

Any other time, any other day, you’d probably have been a bit insulted at the insinuation of uselessness on your part. As things were, your concern and the excruciating pain in your skull were your priorities. For once, you had no protests. 

“Go then. Be safe,” you told him sincerely. 

“Naturally,” he replied. “After all, you finally found something of use to me.”

With that he was gone, leaving you to sit yourself back in the chair and will the pain in your skull to subside. Now you were worried for  _ both  _ of them, hoping that whatever was out there wouldn’t be too much for the men to handle. 

Even before the pain fully dissipated, you were standing, retrieving your sword to follow after Vergil. 


End file.
